


beneath the northern frost lies the sorrows of old

by puspinterlocke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crypts of Winterfell, Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, King Bran Stark, M/M, Magic, Multi, Multiple Pairings, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Politics, Post Game of Thrones, Post-War, Princess Arya Stark, Romance, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Stark Ghosts, Summer is here, Violence, War, lots of ghosts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puspinterlocke/pseuds/puspinterlocke
Summary: Summer comes after Winter, and the survivors of the great war embrace the ages with one foot in the past.Underneath Winterfell's soil lies the crypts of their ancestors where spirits walk across desolate planes and forgotten faces. As Alona Snow bands with the other children who've been born in the aftermath of the white walkers to venture for a sense of truth, the ghosts begin to wail of unspoken regrets.--"Jon thinks the air tastes different beyond the Wall. Arya wants more, even after all these years. Bran sits on a throne in King's Landing, but the people think his ability to smile is a myth. Sansa keeps the north close and dear, like a heartbeat in a teacup that could shatter at any moment."Theirs is a tangled mess of magic, emotions, and fear of a looming future.Times are hard and broken apart, so they try and try and try.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Implied Sansa Stark/Meera Reed, Original Female Character/Original Male Characters, Past Bran Stark/Meera Reed, Sansa Stark/Jon Snow, past Bran Stark/Jojen Reed
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who first read this fic, I made a few changes in the overall summary when I realized the plot was going somewhere I didn't quite originally plan. I actually do a lot of adjustments on the chapters when I realize they're rather short. I do apologize for this and will strive to avoid them in the future so as not to cause any confusion for readers! Still, I am grateful for time taken to read this.  
> I love ASOIAF and am very fond of the GOT TV series. This is why I have decided to incorporate both themes in the fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heat of Summer grows by the day, and Bran asks Sansa for something she cannot give.  
> The ghosts of Winterfell seem to be changing, and so is Alona's place within the castle.

**_Sansa_ **

Suddenly, Summer is a certainty.

As it had been many years after the war ended, when the dead had ceased being alive as they shattered into an endless meadow of snowflakes beneath the strength of the northern land. The wild orange flares of dragon fire flickering into the endless, endless night. Drowning out the sobs of a hundred dying soldiers, fathers, mothers, children. An army that survived white walkers, but perished in the face of a single throne’s power.

The north remembers, so Sansa does as well. And she welcomes the decline of blood curling tension with an almost thankful ease. Because even though Winterfell had been left with nothing more than battered brick walls and an abundance of ghosts, there was peace. A semblance of normalcy. Their lands flooded with melting ice, the glaciers at the top of their towers shrinking away into the gradual heat. The people tilting their heads up to look at the sky once more. As if, by chance, there was something out there that shouted relief.

Sansa looks across the borders where she had once stood with her siblings years ago. The pathway seemed narrower and gray compared to how it was when she’d been expecting battles and bloodshed. She supposes Jon and Arya’s presence had made the look-out feel sentimental. Bran had been in that memory too, she thinks, somewhere around the corner with a blank expression on his face. She no longer remembers how he smiled. Maybe, he never did.

Growing old meant blooming regrets. Sansa has many. Among them, not having memorized the way her loved ones laughed.

“Your grace.” Sansa hears maester Wolkan’s voice travel from the comforts of the tower. He walks closer to her, his maester’s chains dangling by his neck with a roll of parchment clutched tightly in his hands.

Sansa doesn’t look at him. (Some days, she can’t. Not really. And not just him. Because all of them are pieces of a story left behind, and there are times when you just don’t have the energy to deal with these deep, flashing memories.) “What is it, maester?” she asks.

“A raven from King’s Landing.” Wolkan tries to hand her the message but she refuses to take it. Not yet, she thinks. “It is from the king, your grace. Your brother.”

“I haven’t quite forgotten that the king shares my blood, maester.” Sansa drawls out coolly in response. She stares at the diminishing puddles of snow on the already emerging meadow and breathes out a small puff of air, the white clouds gathering in front of her face. “What does it say?”

Wolkan licks his lips and looks down in hesitation. “I don’t believe I’m in the position, your grace – “

“You’ve served as head maester of Winterfell nearing two decades, maester Wolkan.” Sansa calmly cuts him off. “I trust your ability to deliver any message in the service of the northern kingdom.”

For a while, there is only silence and Sansa quietly realizes, at that point, how much time has been given to her. That she could remain composed in the presence of a scroll from Bran without feeling any sort of anxiety. So much unlike how she was before, how they all were when their lives had been plagued with the corruption of a rotten system.

Wolkan finally unrolls the paper and clears his throat. He mumbles through the words a bit, his eyebrows furrowing, before stopping altogether and looking up at Sansa. At this, she turns her head to him and glances down at the scroll. All of a sudden, the feeling of infinite leniency began to deflate and she slowly reached out to take it.

She reads through the black and white with an intense focus, drinking in the carefully scrawled penmanship of her younger brother. The direct tone to his writing as well as the finality of it on her end. She lets out an inaudible scoff, looks up from the message, and turns once more to maester Wolkan. “Come with me.” She tells him as she starts to walk back to her study. “I need to write him a reply as soon as possible.”

“With all due respect, your grace.” Maester Wolkan follows her with an air of worry. “But is it bad?” he asks and his voice says it all. (Because it could be famine or sickness or another cruel, ruthless, and unrelenting monster of a man surfacing from the seven hells with a claim on a throne and an army to burn down villages.)

Sansa stops with her back to him. “You needn’t worry, maester. This is a matter mostly concerning family ties.” Because really, when has it ever been anything different? When has it ever been _not_ about her family? She replies monotonously, “A long standing issue I’ve yet to resolve with my brother.”

Maester Wolkan knows better than to pry, so they allow the peaceful morning to stretch on. They walk across the barely awakened halls of Winterfell, and Sansa straightens her back for whatever it was she would want to say to her brother. Bran, a thousand leagues from Winterfell, doesn’t know better about the things that happen beneath her rule. Never mind the three-eyed raven or his supposed wisdom. There are days when she damns his gift, damns it for all it is because it killed her brother and even after all these years, she couldn’t quite swallow it whole that he was never coming back. That, quite possibly, none of them were coming back.

Sansa sits behind her desk and holds her quill down on the parchment before she starts scribbling.

She thinks, sometimes, that it didn’t matter if Bran was her brother. Not when it came to certain things. She had fought for the independence of the north, and long after all of them have left her – Arya across the sea, Jon in exile over the Wall, Theon dead, Robb dead, Rickon, and mother and father – the north was all she had left.

That, and the ward she’d raised for so many years of whom Bran was now asking for her to bring to him.

 _Forgive me, brother._ She thinks as she watches the ink dry. Rivers of ebony pressed down against parchment. She rolls it carefully before handing it to maester Wolkan. “With haste, maester.”

The man nods his head, ties the message in twine, and tucks it into his robes.

“Oh, and maester Wolkan,” Sansa calls after him before he makes his leave and she glances out the window where the pathways are bare and the people are just beginning to go about their day. “The Reeds. When are they expected to arrive in Winterfell?”

Meera had sent word less than a month ago that she would be visiting in order to help with preparations for the upcoming Summer. Sansa had made it a routine for the northern houses to gather every turn of a season in order to ensure that lands and provisions are taken care of, and that the people are getting ample share of them.

“About a fortnight, your grace.” Maester Wolkan replies. “We are very much ready to receive them.”

“And I have you to thank for that.” Sansa comments.

“It is an honor, your grace.” The maester says with a small smile, the smallest he could probably manage ever since the fighting had died out and he had decided to stay in Winterfell, even crowning Sansa herself as Queen in the North. It all seemed like it had happened a thousand years ago.

The maester leaves, closing the door behind him, and Sansa leans back against her chair. The message from Bran still lay on her table, limp and not entirely abandoned. She knew he would not take her rejection with an easy acceptance no matter how collected he seems. But she had built something here in the far reaches of the northern kingdoms, and one of the things she’d come to commit herself to was protecting the people living under her roof.

So she watches the dew drops of the last of this year’s snow kiss at the surface of her glass windows, disappearing just as instantly as they touch the morning glare. She could remember a time when the days were filled with nothing but white blankets.

But now suddenly, Summer is a certainty. And Sansa looks on.

_**Alona** _

Rickon’s ghost is intrusive. And compared to all the other spirits in the castle, he is the most likely to invade someone’s personal space.

Like what he is doing right now.

“Sansa makes prettier stitches than you.” He says to the girl bent over her work as he drapes his wrists over the lean of a nearby chair. Sunlight filters across the room, exposing his translucency and rendering his fiery hair a shade paler. He sniffs when he looks down at the cloth and thread in her hand, his head tilting to the side. “Is that supposed to be a duck or a turtle?”

It is supposed to be a winter rose and Rickon’s constant remarks are not helping her progress.

“I don’t like being ignored.” The youngest of the previous Starks groans as he pushes himself up and saunters over to septa Reia. He bends down and looks at her straight in the face, his nose barely inches from hers as she unsuspectingly continues with her own embroidery. “Aren’t septas supposed to be old? septa Mordane had wrinkles last I saw her. This one is…” He straightens up and stares at the girl sitting on a small chair in front of him. “She looks like someone who could be your older sister, Alona.”

The girl ignores him, just as she had trained herself to do with every spiritual entity who’s ever thought of squeezing themselves into her life just because she’s the only one in Winterfell who could see them, hear them, sense them. It had been a habit she’d gotten used to behind closed doors – pretending not to notice, that is. And she isn’t about to let her composure slip away with a Stark ghost who is bent on being extra annoying.

“Alona, _please._ ” Rickon flops down at her feet, still so vibrantly young despite being dead. The tragedy of his murder is not something Alona could forget. As a child, the stories of the past wars had haunted her dreams. So she’d kept in mind that the boy was only thirteen and was still in the cusp of his wildness when he was struck down. Cut short by an unfortunate life the likes of which, if the gods were good, she would never have to experience herself. “Fine.” He finally says with a pout and suddenly rises towards the table. “I don’t need you anyway.”

With a frighteningly swift motion, Rickon sweeps his arms over the papers stacked up on the desk. Although his limb merely passes through, the slight vibrations of his movement causes a small shift against the surface of the documents and it stumbles a bit before suddenly collapsing into a heap of scattered sheets on the floor.

Septa Reia gasps and drops her embroidery, her eyes going wide in fright. “Oh my.” She mutters before standing up and staring at the mess. “Whatever could’ve done that? The windows are closed.” She says and looks at Alona as if the girl could explain what had happened.

Alona says nothing, only narrows her eyes ever so slightly at Rickon who had resorted to glaring at her as he makes his way out of the room by merging with the brick wall. She gently puts down her work to help her septa clean up. “It must’ve been unstable.” She says.

“Must be.” The septa nods in agreement, careful hands shuffling papers into neat bundles and slapping them back on the table. “Or they could have been… something else.” She glances at Alona for half a second before returning her attention to the parchments.

Alona doesn’t respond. Doesn’t let the world know that she had just watched a dead and offended boy cause a slight mishap in the material world of the living. Before a few months ago, she wouldn’t have believed it could happen. That spirits could breach the line separating them from those who were still alive and touch their – their _things_. But these instances have been happening more often lately and she didn’t quite know what to think.

It’s not exactly a secret – Alona’s ability to see the ghosts of Winterfell. She doesn’t understand it, either. She had treated it like how a person treats a birthmark. You’re born with it, but the more time passes by, the more you age, the less attention it receives. It becomes a part of you, unnoticeable and sometimes even inconvenient, but harmless in nature and just something people point out when they remember to even mention you.

But lately… things have been different.

She hasn’t mentioned it to anyone, the growing physical contact. Not to maester Wolkan, who already has so much on his plate to be worrying about her. Not to septa Reia, kind and dutiful but easy to worry and frantic in nature. Not even to her other teachers, whom she had always been close with. This left her with the option of telling queen Sansa, since her brother the King of the Six Kingdoms is himself gifted with the unusual mind’s eye. However, Alona always stops short. Wonders if she would be wasting anyone’s time if she could just wait for the troublesome ghosts to go away.

She is very good at that. Leaving things be when she doesn’t know what to do with them.

Once they are done rearranging the papers, they hear the bells of Winterfell’s gate ring. The sounds are dull against the serenity of a nearing noon and septa Reia’s body language confirms Alona’s interpretation of it. The Reeds were near and it is customary for the household to prepare for their arrival.

“I suppose we should make our own preparations, then.” The septa says and gently ushers Alona out of the room.

They walk down the halls as the bell continues its eerie song. All the while, Alona feels a slight worry that Rickon would emerge from the walls again after having spent his time sulking and would suddenly give her a piece of his mind. That, or some other spirit would decide to show up and cause another fright. _Not today. Not for the rest of the month_. She tells herself. _You have no time to deal with_ any _of them._

“Have we ensured to change the room assignments for the Reeds, septa?” Alona asks suddenly, just to distract herself from her relentless worries. She knew the chambers have undergone new distribution. She had seen to it herself. But she needs something to hold on to, something to keep herself grounded in the weeks to come.

“Yes,” Septa Reia nodded. “I’ve also arranged the Reed children’s rooms to have wool cushions, as you’ve instructed.” She smiles at Alona as if she were fond of the girl’s knowledge of their guests. “You know them better than I after all.”

And she does. Despite her unofficial status within the Stark household. Despite the vastness of Winterfell and the ultimate focus it had to take in order to learn how to run it. She took the time to know the noble houses, not just their words and banners and geography, but their personal lives. Queen Sansa had once told her she needn’t dedicate herself to it so much if she didn’t like it, but Alona knew the woman expects much from her and any form of disappointment is unacceptable. She might have been a bare minimum girl, but she knows how to do a job. At least, in the simplest way possible.

Girl and septa came to a gradual halt when the queen herself surfaces from a corner and meets them in the middle of the hallway. They both curtsy and Sansa regards them coolly.

“Your grace.” The septa greets. “We were just on our way to prepare for the arrival of house Reed.”

“Very good.” Sansa says simply before turning to Alona. “You will stand behind me in the welcome party.”

Alona looks up, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Would that be proper, your grace?” she dares to ask and septa Reia seems to flinch from the lack of tact in the girl’s usually gentle tone.

“It is deemed a sign of respect and honor for the Starks of Winterfell to greet their guests.” Sansa says, reciting the lessons every person within the reaches of the north have grown up knowing. As if this would suffice any confusion on the matter.

“I am no Stark, your grace.” Alona says, her face a canvas of neutrality.

Sansa’s lip twitches and the girl thinks the queen might have meant to smile, but thought better of it. “Lord Jon Snow used to say that a lot. He became a man of great renown across the Six Kingdoms and the independent north.”

“And over the wall. In exile.” Alona supplies blandly, her expression betraying nothing.

“Yes.” Sansa responds and makes a move to leave. “In exile.” She repeats. She turns her back and says, “You are expected to be prepared in an hour.”

By the time the Queen makes another turn, disappearing with a clack of her boots to some other part of the castle, septa Reia grabs Alona by the wrist and pulls her towards her chambers. “Standing behind the queen herself.” The septa says with what seems to be breathless excitement and fear all at the same time. “You shouldn’t have questioned her so.” She says in reprimand and stops in front of the girl’s room.

“And why shouldn’t I have?” Alona asks, her naturally small voice echoing in sync with the ringing bells. Septa Reia doesn’t answer and she follows it up, “There’s a reason why I was given the name Alona Snow.”

“You’re not a bastard.”

“You’re not sure.” Alona says. “No one is sure.”

“Yes, but given the circumstances you are currently in, the queen may be doing you a favor. And if the rumors within Winterfell is right, she might be up to it by including you in the welcoming party today.”

“Up to what?” Alona asks. “Tell me.”

Septa Reia pauses, her hand hovering over the doorknob. She casts her brown eyes down on the ground as if she wasn’t supposed to be speaking of such things. But when she looks up at Alona, there is a shine in them. Hope springing upwards and curling into the air. “She might be trying to formally adopt you.” She says and gently touches the girl’s fingers. “You may soon become Alona Stark.”

Alona stops at that, her breath leaving her for a full minute. She’d always known there is a possibility of her becoming a true Stark, but she never clung to the idea. Never allowed herself, past the age of twelve, to continue thinking about it. She had learned to be content. Besides, the queen herself barely seemed to entertain the notion.

Until now.

Septa Reia smiles, opens the door to her chambers. And Alona steps in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Practicing writing original characters is something I've been doing for a while now, since I find that when I create OCs, I don't usually take the time to actually get to know them. This is why I think writing an OC in a setting like GOT/ASOIAF that I'm familiar with might help me build a character.  
> Comments are appreciated!
> 
> Welcome the Reeds in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meera recalls fragments of painful memories. Alona sees more ghosts, and one of them isn't even dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for depictions of grief, intense sadness, and lack of care for the body/well being.  
> In terms of hair and eye color for the characters, I had adjusted to both the books and the TV series. Meera here has the same dark curly hair and brown eyes as that of the Game of Thrones TV series, while Jojen in her memory is described with green eyes as that of in the books.

**_Meera_ **

When Meera left Winterfell before the great war against the White Walkers and the army of the Night King, she’d departed in a disarray. Of course, nobody knew and nobody had bothered to ask about her when Bran had clearly sent her away with his words, “Thank you.”

She never knew what it meant for life to lose its foundation until she had lost the one person she thought she would always spend it with. Jojen might have rarely shown his affection, at least not in front of other people, but he was her brother. And he had meant half of everything to her. The other half was a crippled boy who was called upon by the three-eyed raven. He had died, too. Along the journey.

Jojen’s body had been so small. Everything about him was small. His hands clutching at her fingers by the swamp in the Neck when they were little. His face round and freckled and already all knowing when he had been born a greenseer, eyes widening with crystals of emerald shifting under the light. Jojen’s body – it had been so, _so_ very small.

Why didn’t she carry it back home? She clutched her empty hands to her chest as she slept on the mud of a wilderness unknown, her eyes shut tight and her teeth bared in the dark as she sobbed tearless cries. 

The crannogmen had always been tiny in the spec of the north. Meera felt the weight of that reality when she’d laid herself on that damp earth, realizing she was a miniscule person in this miniscule part of the cruel world.

So as everyone was busy preparing for war with the Starks reunited and the dragon queen sailing back from a land Meera had no care for to name, she had wandered for days in the forests between Winterfell and the Neck. There were times when she could no longer discern where the borders of home started and where the pain of death ended.

She would wake up with leaves tousled in her hair as the dirt gathered in her nails and the branches scratched at her skin, blood clotting where they were drawn without her minding to clean it in fear of infection. She would feel numb, her stomach knowing not of hunger but of the churn at the memory of leaving dead bodies in snow filled wastelands and Jojen staring at her with wide lifeless eyes.

She wasn’t sure how she arrived in the borders of their swamp, greeted by the crannogmen who’ve been fetching firewood, their arms dropping the logs in shock of her arrival. She’d collapsed in a heap of exhaustion and slept for two days.

When she woke up, her father came to her room.

Howland had stood in front of her bed without saying a word as Jyana cried outside, her voice raw and filled with grief. Meera stared at him for a long time. And then she started clutching at her sheets, broken fingers weakened from hunger shaking in barely concealed anger. She snarled and glared, like a wolf beneath a full moon. Like Summer cornered by White Walkers, and growled at her father, “ _Get out._ ”

Howland knew better than to poke at a newfound rage of a child who’d lost her everything.

She had blamed him for Jojen’s death, for the death of her innocence. For sending them away to fight something they barely understood and when she came back with nothing but sadness and blood in her hands, she’d realized her father’s sense of duty and honor were only worth the soil beneath their feet.

She and Jojen should never have left the Neck.

They should have stayed within Greywater Watch.

Meera supposes she continued to blame Howland as well as Bran and the rest of the world several years after that. Even after she’d recovered and was resigned to rejoining ordinary life. She still blamed her father on his deathbed, and still so when she became lady of house Reed. After having her own children, who would probably one day blame her for something in the future as well.

It was easier to point fingers when you don’t understand the empty meaning of tragedy.

So she holds on to her painful memories like a septa wears a habit, takes her household to the castle of Winterfell, and breathes. Winter has long passed. It’s about time it started feeling like it.

_**Alona** _

Majority of house Reed arrives on foot.

Alona watches them from behind queen Sansa and takes in the browns and greens of their clothing. The spears, fishes, and hunting nets they have brought from the Neck packed in large storages are wheeled in through the gate. The ruling family and the rest of the household line up, their movements languid and easygoing. Traits the girl only ever seem to associate with the Reeds.

Lady Meera stands at the head of her family, her long brown curls tied back into a braid and settled over her left shoulder. She wears a travelling dress thick with furs, her gloves holed at the fingers, and a short sword situated at her hip. When she smiles and bends her knee, Alona notes at the fluid way the rest of the house follows her. Their postures assured and confident as if to say, _those who seek to crush us will be met with spears down their throats and their armies drowned in the forest swamps of our ancestors._

Alona can’t see queen Sansa’s face, but she knows there is a small upward turn on the woman’s lip there as well. When lady Meera rises, the queen steps in to offer her a warm hug.

Standing like that together, Alona can’t help but marvel at their differences. The lady Meera with her rich dark eyes and lanky, laidback movements. Queen Sansa with her face as cold as ice and her tall, stiff shoulders. The two women stare at each other for a while, their gazes knowing and amused. But then, both of them start to laugh and everyone else seems to breathe a little lighter.

“It’s nice to see you well, your grace.” Lady Meera says. “The last time we were here, you’d caught a cold the day before we left.”

“Signs of old age.” Queen Sansa responds. “I suppose you are also in good health?”

“The old gods of the forest refuse to take me yet.” Lady Meera says good-naturedly. “I refuse to as well. Until I’m sure Jen can be left alone to take care of our people without burning something down in the process.”

Alona looks up at the mention of Jen’s name and her eyes discreetly scan the party for the boy. She sees him amongst his siblings, all three of them standing together behind their mother. She wouldn’t mistake him anywhere.

She isn’t surprised to find him already staring at her with an intensity that could’ve melted a pot of copper. As if he were daring her to avert her eyes and show just how easily she would relent to a challenging enemy. But Alona isn’t in the mood to play his games, not when the day is only beginning and the castle’s ghosts have been at the back of her mind. So she looks at him a while longer before turning her attention back to the lady Meera, who had noticed her.

“Alona.” The woman steps in to kiss the girl’s cheeks. “Gods, you’re tall. I didn’t think you would grow another inch last I saw you. You’ll be just as tall as the queen in no time.”

“Or taller.” Queen Sansa says. “And prettier.”

“Different women, different beauties, your grace.” Lady Meera says and winks. “I’m glad to see you in the limelight, Alona. And not in the shadows like you usually do.” She shares a glance with queen Sansa and Alona knows they would be talking about the sudden change of the girl’s position in the welcoming party over a private dinner.

Alona lowers her head and says, “I am honored to be of service to both the Queen in the North and the Lady of House Reed.” In truth, she isn’t sure what to feel after septa Reia’s theory and the lack of explanation on queen Sansa’s part. But she isn’t going to approach the situation just yet. “I am a servant of the independent kingdom and shall dispose myself as such.”

“You raised a dutiful one here, your grace.” Lady Meera comments with a hearty laugh and squeezes Alona’s shoulder. “Be at ease, child.”

Alona smiles and means to thank the lady Meera when she is cut off by a boyish voice, “Meera!”

The girl slowly directs her gaze sideways and finds Rickon standing near her with his eyes wide with mirth. “Oh, Meera! It’s Meera! She’s back! I’ve missed you so.” He says as he hugs her in vain, barely being able to touch the woman who still continued her conversation with the queen Sansa. “I haven’t seen her in almost a year.”

“Shall we go inside?” Queen Sansa says and lady Meera nods. The rest of house Reed and the servants of Winterfell disperse to their respective duties.

“Meera!” Rickon shouts in despair as the lady Meera retreats into the castle with the queen. “If Jojen were alive, I’m sure he would’ve seen me.” He laments, turning to Alona with a look of hurt and disappointment. “And he wouldn’t ignore me. Unlike you, Alona. You used to talk to me a lot.”

“Rickon, please.” Alona whispers, careful not to draw any attention as she struggles to talk to the boy for the first time today. “I can’t just speak to you out of the blue. People will think me mad.”

“Everyone knows you have the sight.” Rickon reasons and for once, he makes a point.

“Doesn’t mean I can just go around talking to thin air like it’s nothing.”

“Jojen Reed was never ashamed of his greenseer gifts.” Another voice flows in and Alona whips her head to see a figure of a woman in a dark knitted dress sitting on a wagon of haystack. “The boy was wise, didn’t think none of what other people said.”

“Osha?” Alona breathes out, surprised to see the woman’s ghost out here in the open. Although Rickon was an energetic spirit who jumped from place to place within Winterfell, not all entities were like him. Some of them only appear in certain parts.

“I know what you’re thinking, little lady.” Osha says. “Why aren’t I in the queen’s bedroom like I usually am? Well, little Rickon here was lonely and wouldn’t stop bothering me. He’s getting more… persistent by the day.” she locks eyes with Alona and the girl shivers at the implied idea: that ghosts could grow stronger, especially if their emotions were powerful.

Alona presses her lips together.

“Anyway, if you’ll excuse us we’ll be dining with Meera and the queen.” Osha stands, the material of her body shifting with the movement. The dark dress seems to become gray for a moment before turning back to a solid color. As if it were real cloth and not something conjured by the spiritual realm. “Come on, Rickon.”

Rickon skips past Alona and buries himself underneath Osha’s arm. The woman runs her fingers through the boy’s auburn hair, the strands wraith-like and buzzing.

“Talking to ghosts again?”

Jen stands beside her, his eyes scanning the haystack as if he could see Osha and Rickon as well. If only he could, Alona thinks. Then things might be easier to explain. Easier to understand. “Yes.” She responds. “Aren’t you supposed to be inside?”

“Eager to be rid of me so quickly?” Jen asks lazily as he buries his hands inside his pockets. “I’m going to be here for a month, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” Alona mumbles, her fingers playing with a stray thread on the billowy sleeve of her dress. “Summer is coming.”

Jen scoffs. “Those aren’t the Stark words.”

“I suppose not.” Alona looks at him. “But I’m not a Stark.”

“Ah, yes.” Jen responds. “I truly am back in Winterfell. I haven’t heard your wisp of a voice say those words in what feels like a lifetime. And what is the northern stronghold if not for the presence of its loveliest Snow?”

“And what is house Reed without its most ardent troublemaker bent on appearing clever?” Alona lets the words flow with bite sized bitterness. She isn’t used to verbal battles, it’s true. But Jen always had a knack of bringing a few things out of her. She is satisfied to know he feels the same of her. 

“Is this Meera’s little Jojen?” Osha asks, stopping to inspect the boy. “Handsome. Looks just like his uncle.” She grins and eyes Alona slyly. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Alona grits her teeth behind closed lips and says nothing.

As a crannogman, Jen is slim with a height that could be considered average for other men and tall for a citizen of Greywater Watch. This is the reason why he stands at the exact same footing with Alona. Like Meera, his eyes are a dark shade of brown. A pair of solar eclipses when the clouds refract the escaping sunlight. His hair is the color of caramel cream, curls tousled over his forehead. His face filled with the freckles common to Reeds.

“You think I’m trouble?” Jen lowers his voice and shifts ever so slightly so he could speak to her ear.

Alona swallows and reaches over to remove a flint from his cloak. She watches his eyes trail over the slender form of her hand, even as she withdraws it. “I think you should get some rest. My lord.” She says before turning her back to him.

He might’ve taken after his mother in appearance but Jen is no Meera. He isn’t obedient, cheerful, and responsible. Although he has a sense of duty somewhere beneath that thick skin, Alona knows he’s more wildfire than gentle stream. More a solitary hunter than a charismatic leader. A snake in a swamp, waiting to strike.

“Dear me, lady Snow.” Osha drawls out amusedly as she and Rickon follow Alona into the castle. “I haven’t seen that much sexual tension since the war.”

“It was hardly anything.” Alona replies. She breathes out, feeling the heat in her chest subside. It makes way to a sheen of embarrassment. 

“Jen comes to Winterfell every year.” Rickon says and Alona prays to the gods he doesn’t say more. But with so many people around her, she can’t just whip around and tell him to shut up. “Alona and him used to be friends.”

“Used to be?” Osha raises an eyebrow at Alona and the girl shakes her head. She refuses to say anything.

“They had a fight, I think.” Rickon replies.

“Oh?” Osha’s eyes doesn’t leave Alona. “Why’s that?”

“I’m not sure. But last year, they used to spend a _lot_ of time together. Like every night in Jen’s room.” Rickon blurts out all at once and Osha starts to laugh so loud Alona thought the sound would’ve reached the world of the living.

The girl feels the heat rise to her face and she knows she can’t contain it anymore. Never mind that Osha and Rickon are ghosts, she will not stand here and be mocked by spirits who know next to nothing about her. Because if there’s one thing she hates about her ability to see the dead, it’s the way they assume they have the right to judge the way she lives her life. As if it were a show for their amusement, their demands having no respect for her space.

She turns to the two spirits, her nostrils flaring and says, “Out. Of. My. _Sight._ ”

Osha scoffs and opens her mouth to defend herself from the girl's silent outburst, but a powerful wind suddenly passes them. Alona's hair disentangles itself from the bun she'd tied it in, dark strands whipping in front of her face as she gasps from the sudden pressure. 

Rickon disintegrates first, his surprised scream fading into the distance as he is blown away into a red haze. Osha follows him, her wide eyes staring at Alona as she, too, disappears into black dust.

For a moment, Alona just stands there, breathing hard. The world continues on around her, people walking by with plates of bread and trunks of clothing. She steps back and gulps for air, wondering what in the seven hells has happened?

Moreover, what in the seven hells has she _done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never get over Jojen's death and Meera's total disappearance from the TV series after Bran comes back to Winterfell. I loved them both so much!
> 
> Anyway, tell me what you think in the comment section below!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow lives beyond the wall where every living thing is free. He feels himself age, still.  
> Meera and Sansa remember the day Alona arrived in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties in writing something fictional about the lengthy mating of direwolves.

_**Jon** _

Jon Snow picks up a broken mirror and calls himself a murderer. There is simply no other word for him.

At this side of the north beyond the Wall, the sky is always dark but rain never seems to come. As if the clouds are adamant in keeping the water from pouring down despite the heaviness it carries. This suffering must be eternal, he thinks as he looks up from the ring of stones he is setting on the soil in preparation of a fire. Somewhere near him, a body shifts and coughs.

This isn’t the place where the wildling king Mance Rayder used to gather his people, humans and giants and wargs alike, to plan for the Long Night. These aren’t the lands where he had walked free under a beautiful frosted sunlight, Ygritte running towards him to bury herself in his arms. Her hair kissed by fire and flying in the wind, tickling his face. Teaching him what passionate love meant.

It had meant pain. And everything else, after he had put her in the ground – after he had put everyone dear to him underneath their feet – began to feel more painful.

Lyanna Stark wandering the crypts of Winterfell after having bled to death in the Tower of Joy. Rhaegar Targaryen dying in the Trident as a warhammer is struck down against his ruby encrusted armor. Ned Stark’s head on a pike. Ygritte with an arrow from behind, her back arching in surprise. Rickon with his face on the dirt and Jon’s futile attempt to reach him. Daenerys with a dagger inserted deep into her stomach, her dying breath silently wafting through the air.

Jon Snow puts down the shard of glass and breathes out. There is a sound of blankets rustling near him and he glances at the person sitting up.

Tormund’s red hair flew over his face, white streaks playing at the roots as he rubs his eyes lined with wrinkles. _He looks so old like that_ , Jon thinks. But then his gaze passes over the broken mirror on the ground and he tells himself, _all of us are old._

It’s hard to think they’ve been warriors nineteen years ago. But then again, it isn’t so difficult. Not when he and Tormund and the rest of the surviving wildlings have travelled across the borders of the known lands beyond the Wall for so long a time.

He hasn’t set foot in Winterfell since leaving. His heart is numb from all the ache its felt.

Jon stares at the gray in his dark hair and lights a spark on the firewood.

“Gods be good.” Tormund groans and stretches. “My back has been at war with me for days. I don’t know what I’ve done to anger it so.”

Jon smiles fondly. “Have you drank that tea Val’s been trying to give you?”

“Nay,” Tormund rakes his fingers across his hair. “But I now have half a mind to.”

In the twilight, Jon sees a pair of children running across the nearby woods. Their laughter rings out into the growing night as their mother calls for them from somewhere near the encampment. “You should do a better job at taking care of yourself, you know.” He tells Tormund and the wildling raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oy, I do a much better job than you. Lord Snow.” He says the name with emphasis. As if they were both still young, sharing stories underneath a red light with sweet mead in their mugs. “And don’t you worry. I’m not about to die. I’ve got people to lead. Especially once you’re back within the Wall.”

Jon grows silent at that as he pokes the fire with a long, sharp stick. “I’m not leaving any of you, Tormund.” He says quietly.

Tormund shifts himself until he’s sitting much nearer to Jon. “Don’t be stupid.” He says and looks around at the people. They haven’t been this happy and this prosperous before the great war when fear was a parasite among them, even in the hearts of innocent babes. Now there is food and land in abundance. The likes of which none of them have seen prior to these past two decades. “Your brother is ordering you back. You’re still under his command.”

“He’s lifting my exile. That doesn’t mean he’s ordering me to do anything.”

“It’s the same thing and you know it.” Tormund points at him, his face going serious in the half light.

Jon looks away. “I’m also a citizen of Winterfell. Unless Sansa provides her support behind this… this letter, I’m not going anywhere near the Wall again.”

He feels her name roll over his tongue with a warm comfort that reminds him of honey. He hasn’t had reason to say it, and letting the delicate syllables pass his lips sends a tightness in his belly. He wishes, sometimes, he’d been more graceful at his goodbyes when he’d left Winterfell. All of them had been composed, Arya and Bran specifically. Their smiles knowing and confident.

Sansa had held on to him so tightly and he didn’t want to let her go. Not then. Not ever.

But he did, and some days he feels the regret gnaw at him.

“Don’t make me send a raven to your sister just to convince you how much your siblings want you back home, Snow.” Tormund tells him. From a distance, Ghost emerges through the bushes and is immediately attacked by a pack of children. He lays down on the ground and rolls over, and Jon grins ever so slightly.

“Ghost is happier here.” Jon comments.

“Aye, he’s got a girlfriend.” Tormund says and as if on cue, a female direwolf bumps her head against Jon’s shoulder. Unlike Ghost’s pure ivory coat, which had grown longer through the years covering most of his limbs and around his neck, Balerya is slender and black with three white scars across her nose and sky blue eyes _. She looks like Shaggydog except she has a sweet temperament_ , he thinks as he scratches her behind the ear. His hand trails down to her stomach and feels a slight lump there.

Direwolves mate very slowly compared to other animals and Jon figures this is why they’ve easily gone almost extinct before. This is by the far the second time Ghost and Balerya have produced a potential litter. The first pack of pups had grown more than seven years ago and had run off to join other packs or became alphas themselves.

_Like us._

Jon lets the direwolf saunter over to her mate and they began grooming each other.

“You should get one yourself.” Tormund says, producing a skin of ale from his side.

“What?” Jon asks.

“A wife, Snow.” Tormund replies and chugs down the drink with a ferocity that hasn’t decreased with age.

Jon sighs and leaves his friend to drown himself with the skin. He’s well within his forties and by standards of culture within the Wall, he’d have been married by now. But that standard had been destroyed years ago when the version of normalcy they’d grown up in died in fire and ice. The war had changed everything, and nobody wanted to go back to the way things were.

Besides, Jon doesn’t think he’d be fit to have a family.

He looks at Ghost and Balerya, at Tormund standing up to prepare for his nightly watch, and at the children running inside their tents one by one. He thinks, _I have built something here and this is now home._

The air beyond the Wall is ancient and dark, not like the sugar he’d taste when he used to let the snowflakes dance towards his tongue back in Winterfell.

 _I have built something here and this is now home._ He repeats.

The wind passes and he wraps his furs closer against himself. Summer nears like a barefooted maiden clad in pink silk and yellow flowers.

But he feels so cold, still.

_**Meera** _

Meera politely raises her cup and Alona steps in to gently fill it with wine. The lady of house Reed notes the precision in the girl’s movements as she holds the flagon with ease and reminds herself that the child is a ward of Winterfell. Despite the lessons Sansa had provided for her, an unusual practice given the uncertainty of her origins, she had still been brought up in service of the Queen in the North.

Meera sips her wine and turns her attention to Sansa. The Stark had decided to dine with her tonight wearing a light blue dress, its chest area embroidered with the sigil of her house, her auburn hair tied back in an ebony net sewn with brilliant jewels. “I apologize once more, your grace, for my son’s absence at dinner.”

The Queen smiles and gracefully drives a knife across the skin of her sweetened ham. “You have nothing to apologize for, lady Reed. I understand the road must have been long and arduous. I would not have your heir bear an ache under my castle.”

“I doubt that was the reason for his absence.” Meera says with a subtle raise of her brow and Sansa looks up at her. They lock eyes for half a second before the former directs her attention to her two other children. “Janela.” She calls out to her youngest, a girl barely past the age of five with brown hair so unruly even the oldest and most experienced of septas in Winterfell couldn’t quite tame it.

Janela looks up with large green eyes. “Yes, mama?” She asks, her voice pipe and innocent.

Meera fights off a smile as she struggles to reprimand her child. “Pay attention to your food. It is improper to play with your utensils, especially in the presence of the queen.”

Unlike Meera, Sansa doesn’t force herself to maintain a stony expression. She looks at the child with a kind eye and says, “Vegetables will help you grow.”

“I don’t like them.” Janela whines.

“Keep your voice down.” Jyana, Meera’s thirteen-year-old little warrior princess, glares at her sister to impose some sort of dominance. Unfortunately, it leads to half a tantrum when Janela’s face scrunches up in a grimace.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t like them, Janela. You either finish your greens or I won’t let you play outside tomorrow.” Meera threatens calmly, taking another sip of her wine.

“But I want to see the dogs!” Janela shouts and slaps her pudgy hands on the table.

Sansa raises her eyebrows as if to ask, _the dogs?_

 _She has a fondness for the hunting hounds,_ Meera smiles sheepishly.

“Don’t be a brat.” Jyana spits out.

“Mama!” Janela starts kicking the table underneath and only ever stops when Meera throws her a look.

“Janela, mind your manners.” Meera utters every word through gritted teeth, trying very hard not to say anything unnecessarily harsh to her child. Howland had been a cold and dutiful father, and there was rarely any affection between him and her, especially when she’d been growing up. Jojen had been his favorite. And she didn’t want that divided attention to reflect to her children as well. So she breathes in and puts down her cup. “Alright, you don’t have to finish your vegetables for tonight. But you must promise me you will try to eat everything in your plate next time.”

Janela frowns and looks down at her abandoned vegetable leaves.

“You know back then, people often had a hard time coming across food like ours.” Sansa says, her voice gently urging the child to look at her. “Now, we try as best as we could to provide for everyone. Your mother and I. It’s not always easy. But if it’s for children like you to receive the good health they deserve, we do what we must.”

Janela’s eyebrows furrow at that and Meera doesn’t think a five-year-old has ever looked so thoughtful. It is only a few moments when she sees the child pick up her fork and finish her food when the lady of house Reed turns to queen Sansa, an utterly impressed expression plastered on her face. Even Jyana stares at her sister with her mouth agape.

“I’m finished now, mama.” Janela says as she puts down her fork. “May I have some lemon cakes?”

“I…” Meera trails off and silently asks Sansa for permission.

“I don’t see why not.” The queen replies. “Alona?”

“I’ll bring them over to the kitchens, your grace.” Alona nods from where she'd been standing near the dining table. Stiff as a soldier, attentive as a guard.

The girl ushers both of Meera’s daughters out of the dining hall until only Meera and Sansa remained.

“She’s a handful, you know.” Sansa says suddenly.

Meera replies, “Janela? Definitely.”

“No.” Sansa pours herself some wine. “I meant my ward.”

Meera doesn't quite know how to react. “Alona seems like a good girl, Sansa.”

“I didn’t say she’s bad.” Sansa says and looks out the window where the night had settled in hours ago. Her Tully blue eyes shined in the lantern lights, telling Meera she must be partly lost in deep thought. “I’m saying that the entirety of her is filled with so much… with so _much_. I hardly knew what to do with her the first time. Remember when she’d been given to me as a babe?” she looks at Meera with something akin to nostalgia written plainly on her face.

Meera's heart swells with something achingly sweet at how young the queen looks at that moment, her face vibrant with fond memories. “I do.” She replies. Alona had been a thin and sickly infant. She was so weak, nobody thought she would last a week after being left in Winterfell. “You never heard from her father after that? Not even once?”

Sansa glares at nothing and shakes her head. “ _She's my daughter, the heir of house Dayne._ That's what he told me. But what good are mere words? Allyria Dayne sure didn't make use of them from where she sits in Starfall." She looks at Meera and the woman sees some form of pity in the way her eyebrows are drawn together. The usually cool demeanor of an ice queen melting away at the thought of her adopted child. “The man who had brought her here, her father or whoever he truly was, told me his name was Edric Dayne and that Arya would recognized him. But my sister was leagues away. When I sent her a message asking if she knew the man, all she said was he has blonde hair and blue eyes but that the last she knew of him, he had died before the war.”

“And the lady Allyria?” Meera asks. She never truly knew the whole story of Alona's alleged blood relatives and she had always been too polite to pry, afraid it would pick at something the queen wouldn't please about. But now, Sansa spills a part of her heart to her, and she grasps at it with a caution. Holds it close.

“She wanted nothing to do with the child.” Sansa answers and pours herself another cup of wine. “Not that I would want to send Alona to Dorne. Nobody had seen the Daynes since before either of us were born. I don’t quite trust them.”

“I don’t blame you.” Meera says. “But what do you intend for the girl’s future here?”

Sansa smiles and Meera finds it almost sly. Some had called the queen in the north, the red wolf. And with her flaming red hair and sharp features, nobody would ever question the name. “Adopt her.”

Meera nods, “I’m not surprised.”

Sansa takes her third cup, “I’m a queen with no heirs. My siblings are all still childless. And none of us are getting any younger.” She drinks. “Besides, making Alona a Stark will mean Bran won’t be able to take her away.”

Meera stops at that. “What do you mean?”

“Bran.” Sansa says. “He wants me to send Alona to King’s Landing.”

Meera feels herself wince and asks, “Why in seven hells would he want – Oh.” She cuts herself off and stares at the wooden table. “Her gift.”

“Yes, her gift.” Sansa solemnly agrees. “He thinks he’s the only one who could help her hone it.”

“Well, does she need to?” Meera asks the same question Sansa might've posed to herself as well.

The queen shakes her head. “You and I have seen what tampering with the ancient realms can do to people.” She says and swirls the remaining wine in her cup. It stirs like blood. Like the center of Blackwater Bay where the creatures of old await beneath the depths. “The child deserves a simple life. Something we didn't have.”

Meera hears the unspoken statement in it. _She deserves to_ live.

Although she knows what Jojen would’ve thought if he were here listening to this story, she also understands where the queen is coming from. Both their brothers had died in dedication to the path dictated to them by their gifts. One, without fear. The other, ending up on a throne. But it had taken away so many things. And Sansa –

Sansa would not go through that again, that much is certain. Meera is sure nothing would change the queen’s mind.

“Another thing.” Sansa says.

“Yes?”

“Jen.” Sansa looks at her. “And Alona.”

“Gods be good.”

“You noticed.”

“Only a fool wouldn’t.” Meera groans and downs her wine. “I suppose they should marry?”

“What? No.” Sansa laughs. “If I had forced every person in this castle to marry just because they were intimate, I’d be rid of the people’s loyalty.”

“But, Winterfell.” Meera shakes her head. “What about Alona’s honor? You said it yourself, she will be a Stark. Doesn’t it matter here?”

Sansa sighs. “Once she’s a Stark, she’ll be heir to Winterfell and to the whole kingdom. No man wouldn’t want to marry her. Not unless they would pass up the chance to have the north.”

Meera can’t help but admire Sansa at that moment. Her bravery and certainty pulsing over her skin. Once upon a time, when they’d been nothing more than children, she’d looked at the future queen of the north with bitter jealousy as she embraced Bran for returning home while she had to endure the burden of remembering how she cut open Jojen’s throat. But now, after years of struggling to make better choices for the people who depended on them, after taking each other's hand and learning how to nudge the past back to prompt the doors to their youth ajar, (Because suddenly, the independent north needed these children to grow up and become leaders), she had learned to love the woman in front of her. And she had felt that love back.

This is their life now.

“Her claim will be challenged.” Meera says.

“I know.” Sansa concedes.

For some reason, they still manage to smile at that and finish the flagon of wine until they are red in the face. The night stretches on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually named Balerya after Princess Rhaenys' black cat, who was named Balerion.
> 
> Comments are much appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alona dreams of the crypts beneath Winterfell and is faced with the pain of her and Jen's past. 
> 
> Someone decides to return home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for depictions of bad spirits, violence, and threats.

**_Alona_ **

_Visenys_.

Alona looks over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the darkness of the crypts. Beneath the castle of Winterfell, she stands with a torch on her right hand. Her breathing shallow in the chill of the night.

_Visenys. My son._

In the near distance, a woman is crying and Alona struggles to locate her. She walks across the halls with careful, measured steps and glances at the angry statues of dead kings and several unnamed Starks.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have. I couldn't -_

The voice breaks apart like a piece of glass crushed under an uncaring heel. Alona stops beside the stone figure of Brandon Stark, one of queen Sansa's dead uncles. A few meters beside him sits his father, lord Rickard. Both stare at her with hard judgement as if they were telling her she does not belong here. Not in the crypts of house Stark. She is a Snow with no worth to her name.

_Ned. Oh, Ned. My dearest brother._

Alona's attention is pulled back to the voice and she takes small strides towards it. It's frighteningly near, yet her torch could not make out the shadow of the woman in the next corner.

 _You promised me, Ned._ You promised. Her tone is rising in ripples of echoes and Alona can no longer discern the emotions in her voice. _You promised. You told me you would keep him safe. But now, he's gone. It's my fault. It's all my -_

Alona emerges from the hall and stares at the woman in front of her.

She does not breathe. She does not dare.

Lyanna Stark is splayed over the floor, her skin pale and stretched tightly against her bones. The blue dress she wears is tattered and blood seeps through the hems at the end where her fingers are dug deep within the fabric. And her eyes -

They are gone. Replaced with blooming winter roses growing through the two sockets, vines as black as shadows eating at her face like streams of tears.

Alona feels the sweat roll down her forehead and she does not move.

"Where's Ned?" Lyanna asks, her voice fragile and shaking.

Alona feels her breath stuck in her throat.

"I want my brother." Lyanna continues. "I want my son. I'm so cold. The crypts are so cold."

Alona feels herself take a step back and the woman notes this with an eerie stare.

"Please, don't go. Rhaegar -" Lyanna chokes out. "He told me he loved me. He would never leave me. But he did. I'm a fool. I'm such a fool." She laments, the vines strengthening their hold on her skin. "Are you going to leave as well?"

Alona feels the terror eat at her stomach, her lungs constricting and choking her down. She knows she must leave, because if she doesn't -

Lyanna's mouth suddenly opens, revealing a deep black hole where her tongue and teeth used to be. She shrieks in the dark, the sound shrill and angry as Alona stumbles to the floor, a frightened whimper escaping her lips. 

The torch falls from her hand and rolls across the cobbled steps. It bounces against a stone and dies out. 

Alona can hear her own breathing come out in puffs and gasps. She makes a move to stand before she feels it. 

A pair of cold hands grabs her by the neck and pushes her down. Then she feels the blade of a sword, actual steel, press against her throat. Her mind reels as it tries to find an escape. But before she could form a coherent thought, a voice rasps above her. 

It is light and male and sends a warning screaming at Alona's very core. 

"You're all going to die." It says to her and she feels the sword draw blood as she cries and begs for her life. "I'm going to feed your body to my dogs."

She lets out a mixture of screaming and sobbing as she feels the blade pierce through her collar, separating skin from bone. The voice laughs and she spots a pair of pale blue eyes stare at her in the darkness.

She writhes and pleads through the searing pain. _No, no, no!_

Alona's eyes flash open and her hand darts up to touch her collarbone. She coughs once, twice. Until she's sure her neck is still intact.

She confirms she's still alive when she feels her heart beat inside her ears as she throws her sheets out of the way and stands to look at herself in the mirror.

Underneath the moonlight of an arriving dawn, she stares at her eyes. Shadows are smudged beneath them as her hair lay in a tangled mess about her. _This is the face of fear,_ she thinks to herself as she scans the paleness of her lips, runs her stiff fingers over them to feel the dry skin as an aftermath of horror. _What did I just dream?_

She pieces the details together. The crypts of Winterfell. Lyanna Stark. The statues underneath. Lyanna Stark. The name Visenys. Lyanna Stark. The mention of Eddard Stark, father to queen Sansa.

_Lyanna Stark._

And the other voice. The sound of pure evil skinning her alive. Everything -

She breathes out a loud exhale and rests her forehead against the glass. She can't do this, can't go back to sleep or remain in her room. She needs some air. She needs to get away from these suffocating halls and all of its ghosts. 

Wrapping her shoulders with a dark blue shawl, she takes nothing with her as she goes down the steps of the castle barefooted. She feels the cold on her toes and welcomes it. Smells the moss of the yards when she exits the wooden doors and sees nothing but dust and dirt.

Then she spots it. A target practice leaning against a wagon. She drags it soundlessly across the yard until it reaches the center. And then she picks up a bow and a stack of arrows, lays them by her feet as she stares at the battered piece of wood and cloth fifteen meters from her.

She draws an arrow, settles at her target, pulls it back by the feathered rear, and releases it with a breath.

The arrow travels with a _woosh_ and buries its head at the line nearest the bulls eye. Alona grits her teeth.

She wants that bulls eye. She wants it destroyed by a hundred of her arrows until it is nothing but dirty fabric and forgotten memories. She remembers how Rickon and Osha had disappeared right after she lost her temper, remembers how she'd wished they went away only to regret it instantly when they did.

She hasn't seen them for two days. And just when she thought nothing could ever disturb her just as much as the idea of casting away innocent spirits, she is visited by a malevolence in her dreams. 

She had felt so helpless. 

Alona draws another arrow and lets it loose. It lands farther from her first shot and she feels a spark of irritation rise inside of her. She tries to breathe properly. _Imagine the waters, calm and gentle._ She recalls maester Wolkan's advice. But everytime she tries to think of the waters, she sees the beginnings of a gathering tide. The ocean pulling itself back from the shores before rushing in with a ferocity that smashes over a fragile forest.

She takes another arrow and draws it, but before she could let it loose, a _thwang_ sound whistles pass her and a wooden length strikes the bulls eye with smart precision.

Alona looks back with her arrow directed at the culprit and finds herself facing a displeased looking Jen with a spear in his hand and a bow hanging on one shoulder. The tip of his weapon meets the skin below her chin and she glares at him.

"What do you want?" Her voice comes out tight and weak,her anger simmering beneath. 

"A good night's sleep, for one." Jen answers. "I can't quite have that when you've chosen this time of the day to practice your poor long range skills."

Alona takes a step closer and Jen presses his spear to her jaw. "Put away your weapon, lord Reed." She says, something dark burning inside her chest.

"I will if you put your bow down." Jen replies, his gaze fixated on her face. He licks his lips and smiles. "Unless you want to go at it right here, right now."

Alona grits her teeth. "I have no time for this." She says and drops her bow.

Jen grins before withdrawing his spear - only to throw it across the yard and have it land with an intense blow against the target. The wood fractures into splinters as it collapses to the ground.

"You want to wake up the whole castle?" Alona grabs Jen by the sleeve of his arm.

"I wonder if you asked yourself that when you started shooting your arrows?" Jen raises an eyebrow at her. "You were always bad with it, by the way. It was never really your skill."

"And it's yours?"

"I always liked me a target from afar." He replies as he takes her hand and flips it over to examine it. "What's wrong?" He asks her, lowering his voice and growing serious.

"Nothing." Alona withdraws from him and takes a step back. 

"You're shaking." He tells her. "And you wouldn't do something like this if there isn't anything bothering you." He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at her from underneath an expecting gaze.

She stares back at him and considers telling him everything. About ghosts growing powerful enough to touch things. About her dreams of Lyanna Stark and Visenys and evil spirits threatening to feed her to the hounds. About the chance of becoming adopted by queen Sansa and the hope it annoyingly blooms inside her chest.

She used to tell him everything. Now, she can't even look at him without feeling hurt or angry. 

So instead of pouring her heart out to him, she quietly asks. "Why did you come back?"

Jen looks at her and there is a mild surprise on his face. He opens his mouth and closes it, uncertainty evident in the space between them.

"You told me the last time you were here that you would never return so as long as I lived inside the castle." _And now I may never leave, if I become a Stark_.

Jen regards her for a short while before replying, "We both know it's impossible for me to keep away. I'm heir to my house. My duty lies here, in the northern stronghold." He sucks in a breath and adds, "And besides, I was... mad when I said that."

"You still are. Mad, that is." Alona says and bends down to pick up her arrows. She turns to walk to the storage and feels the cool air batter her skin. 

"I am." Jen nods and rakes his fingers through his hair. He leans on the wooden post behind her and kicks at the pebbles on the ground. "So are you."

 _So am I_ , she agrees in her head. She never realized she could be angry for so long until she and Jen had that fight. "When are you ever going to forgive me?" He asks her and it strucks a nerve. 

Alona closes her eyes. "Jen." She warns. She can't do this - won't do this - right now.

"I did what I did because I thought it was the right thing to do." Jen pressed, drawing closer to her.

"Yes. That's what you thought." Alona replies. "But it was a betrayal."

"I did it to protect you."

"You tried your hand in magic once." Alona looks at him and she sees a mixture of pain and longing and anger in his dark eyes. "You wanted to see things, just like your uncle. And when you saw what you saw, you -" She stops when she notices something amiss, her gaze trailing along the broken target. She grows still.

Jen turns to where she's looking at with furrowed eyebrows. "Alona, what's -" He halts as well when he realizes it.

"Jen." Alona lowers her voice to barely above a whisper. "Where's your spear? It was right there."

"Yes." Jen nods and the both of them reach for the wooden storage, each grabbing a blade. The fact that these were sparring swords didn't matter, they would do. "Now, it's gone."

And then Alona feels it - or the lack thereof. The silence is almost defeaning and the wind grows as cold as ice. She and Jen hold their swords with a tension so thick they could slice it in half. 

Jen goes down first. Something hits him at the back of his leg and he stumbles before turning around to swing his blade. It meets with a thin glint but is deflected just as quickly.

 _Fuck,_ Alona mentally screams. Whatever this was, it was fast even in the darkness. But when she catches sight of a few strands of hair whipping in the wind where Jen tries to fight it, she lunges in a curved angle before meeting the unseen opponent with a song of their blades.

She feels the vibration of the impact clatter her teeth and bends down as low as she could when the enemy swings at her. Driving her own sword upward, it meets the thin blade once more in a battle of speed.

But then the opponent manages to twist her blade so swiftly, it nearly breaks Alona's wrist. Her sword flies to the center of the yard and she is pushed back against a post.

Jen is hit on the face when he tries to get between Alona and their attacker, and he grunts before struggling to stand up once more. "Don't." The enemy tells him calmly as if he were a nuisance and an utter waste of time. "Or I'll give you another black eye."

 _A woman_ , Alona thinks. She sees her blade a few feet away and knows she can't reach for it in time if she tries. _She's too fast._

But who would dare enter Winterfell and attack them? The north is a stronghold known for its power. Nobody would dare risk their lives angering the queen and the rest of the northern houses.

It is only when her opponent steps into the moonlight that Alona narrows her eyes. From beside her, Jen carefully takes her hand. She holds on to him tight as she stares at the woman in front of them.

She's tall with dark brown hair tied back into a low bun at the back of her head. Her clothes are made of fine fabric and leather, black as ink, with gray furs. In her hand is the thinnest sword Alona has ever seen and it glints like the stars. Almost like it were a giant needle.

Needle.

"Princess Arya?" Alona asks. Jen stiffens beside her.

"I'd prefer just Arya, but yes." The woman smiles and her gray eyes shine with amusement. She looks at Alona and tilts her head. "Dark hair. Violet eyes. You must be Sansa's ward." Turning to look at Jen, she says, "I don't know who you are, but I reckon from your conversation you did something bad."

Alona and Jen glance at each other, unsure what to make of Arya Stark.

"I believe this is yours." Arya throws Jen's spear at their feet. "Fine wood and finer steel. You best not lose it again next time."

Jen straightens at that and swallows his embarrassment. "I apologize for trying to attack you, my lady."

"Well, I attacked you first so retaliation is actually normal. Sorry about that, by the way. I was in the mood for a bit of trouble. I didn't think either of you could've held out that long. " Arya says. "But you've got a talent for the blade." She directs the statement to Alona. "I'm glad Sansa gave you an opportunity to learn it."

"Her majesty the queen is very kind." Alona says.

"You must be tired from your travels, princess." Jen lowers his head. "Please. Let us escort you inside the castle."

Arya nods. "That's very kind of you, but I would like to visit the crypts first. Please tell my sister if she wishes to see me, I will be down paying respects to our father."

Before either Alona or Jen could say anything else, princess Arya disappears in a wisp of air. The two stare at each other, their eyes big with a multitude of questions.

When they snap back to reality Alona gather hers skirts and says,"I'll go fetch the queen and alert the guards as well."

Jen nods at her, "I'll clean up here and will check the outposts in case she knocked out the soldiers."

When Alona turns away to run back to the castle, her eyes dart over the horizon. The sun is beginning to rise and Arya Stark has come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still stand that Jon should've been named something similar to Visenya, as Rhaegar predicted.  
> Also, since Sansa is queen and Bran is also king, it does make Arya a princess. 
> 
> Comments are much appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sansa bond in the crypts.  
> Alona and Jen are under punishment.  
> The northern houses arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistently writing is honestly hard during these times. I hope you folks enjoy, though!

_**Arya** _

Arya stares at her father’s face, stone and sternness carved across his features. The crafters had made him look almost angry and unforgiving – the Quiet Wolf of Winterfell. But it is him all the same, or at least what’s left of him.

They are lucky to have brought back his bones so he could be laid to rest at the crypts. _Unlike mother and Robb. His poor wife and the child they were supposed to have._ Sansa had made sure to have their likeness carved up as well with Catelyn Stark standing between her son and husband. And on Robb’s left, the stone hedges of Talisa and baby Eddard. Rickon stands at their father’s right, his boyish face splitting into what seems like a grin.

It’s been years since Arya and her siblings had took their revenge. Slitting Littlefinger’s throat. Rendering House Frey to near extinction. Feeding the last Bolton to his own hounds. They didn’t get their hands on Joffrey or the Umbers, but their deaths had been satisfying, nevertheless. A clear victory when some of the only ones left standing to rule over the North and the Six Kingdoms are the four Stark children. Even after the whole world tried to slaughter them like sheep.

_But we are not sheep. We are wolves. And the pack always survives._

“This takes me back.” Sansa’s voice echoes through the damp chillness of the crypts, and Arya smiles. She turns her head to look at her sister, still as tall and as beautiful as ever. Her auburn hair is a thick mane of waves resting over one shoulder. It is no question she had just been pulled out of her bed as she holds her grey woollen shawl against her, but the upward turn of her lips suggests a sweetness the likes of which neither of them have felt in a long time. “I’m glad you’ve come upon our brothers and mother’s statues.”

“Send my regards to the crafters.” Arya replies. “They’ve captured their faces. I always imagined them like this.”

Sansa steps in at that and pulls her into an embrace. “Arya.” She breathes out, and Arya closes her eyes as she wraps her arms around her sister. She smells like winter roses and wet moss and snow gathering on the window pane as the morning light dies out. “I’ve missed you, sweet sister.”

“And I you.” Arya says as she draws back. “How have you been fairing, your grace?”

“Don’t call me that.” Sansa rolls her eyes and for a moment, she looks like she’s twenty again. There isn’t a spec of silver in her bright red hair, Arya notes with fondness. “But I’ve been good. The North thrives.”

“Your accomplishment.”

“The accomplishment of everyone.” Sansa says, a hint of pride shining in her eyes. “And what about you? How was west of Westeros?”

Arya breathes out a smirk as she inclines her head in thought. “Unbelievable and unspeakable all at the same time.” She replies, her eyes wandering the crypts and remembering the countless journeys she’d been through. There were adventures so dangerous, she never thought she’d come out of them alive. But, here she is. “I have so much to show you. I’ve brought many gifts from the Sunset Sea.”

“I’d be honoured.” Sansa says. “But, where are your things? Surely, you have a crew with you. A ship and luggage.”

“I left them,” Arya replies, her tone cautious as she tries not to look as guilty as she felt. “In King’s Landing.”

Sansa’s eyebrows slowly raise at that. “You were in King’s Landing. Since when?”

“A few weeks ago.” Arya replies and she tries to hold herself with grace. She is no longer a child who bites her lip when confronted with something unpleasant. She’d meant to write to Sansa once she had docked in King’s Landing, but something had happened and she thought it best to simply visit Winterfell as fast as she could.

“Bran sent me a letter about a certain matter a few weeks ago as well.” Judging from Sansa’s tone, Arya confirms she and Bran aren’t exactly in amiable terms at the moment. “He made no mention of your return.”

“You know him.” Arya replies, trying to tread lightly between her siblings. _The role of the middle child never ends_ , she thinks. “As the three-eyed raven, he chooses to go straight to the heart of the matter more than anything else. And besides, I had only docked in King’s Landing for two days before I started for Winterfell. I had wanted to tell you, but…”

Sansa takes her hand and the feel of her warm fingers sends a wave of reassurance through Arya’s chest. “What is it?”

Arya smiles at her and shakes her head. “I have so many things to tell you. Not here, though. Lest mother and father rise from their graves and chastise me.”

Sansa nods in understanding. “But leaving your possessions in King’s Landing means you are to return there just as quickly.”

“Yes.” Arya replies. “But only after you’ve settled things here in the North. I know you’re hosting preparations for the summer along with the other houses. And I’m here to stand with you for support.” It’s true, she thinks. The last time she’d been in Winterfell, she barely meddled with politics and provisions, unless they involved murders and lurking. But now, she is truly willing to fill in a role beside Sansa, to ease her burden in ruling the North. “And when all of that is done, let us visit Bran. To be together even for a short while, dear sister.”

“It’s a wonderful image – spending time with each other in King’s Landing. But I can’t possibly do that, Arya.” Sansa’s eyes dart to their mother’s stone figure. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She says, resonating the words of Catelyn Stark. “Besides, we wouldn’t exactly be complete.”

Arya feels a prick of pain at that, and she understands Sansa’s melancholy over the thought of seeing each other again, but not having Jon with them. The nineteen years they’ve spent being apart has only caused a greater impact on their loneliness. (Arya has gone halfway to the edge of the world and back, but she still feels as if it isn’t enough.) And the thought of separating once more is a terrifying ordeal none of them are willing to go through again. “Bran has pardoned Jon. I suppose he didn’t tell you that, either.”

Sansa’s eyes, all Tully blue and deep like the Riverlands in autumn, widens a fraction. There is a glimmer of hope there, as if life has been breathed into her once more. She looks at Arya with a questioning gaze, praying to the old gods and the new for it to be true. That Jon can finally come home.

“We’ve yet to wait for Jon’s response, but I don’t see any reason for him not to return to Winterfell. And when he does, we have to be ready to meet him. As a family.”

Arya’s words soften Sansa, and she reads the queen like a book. _It’s always been Jon, hasn’t it?_ She wants to ask. But every bit of her sister’s body language when things concern Jon Snow had served as an answer. The love had never faded, even after all these years.

“And about your ward, sister.” Arya starts again and feels Sansa stiffen.

“She will not go to King’s Landing.” Sansa says, her voice firm. All of the sentimentality melting away in a second and giving birth to a sort of defensiveness.

“I agree.” Arya says in a placating manner. “Bran does not. He believes she has a potential to be powerful. To be more than just a Snow holed up in Winterfell. His words, not mine.” She says the last statement swiftly. “I don’t like the idea of the three-eyed raven any more than you do. I don’t trust talks of destiny.” She had forged hers through iron and fire and the blood of her enemies. “But, I’ve seen your ward earlier.”

Sansa stares at Arya, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, like a little girl waiting to hear awful news. “And?”

“I plan to have one more adventure after finally settling down in the Six Kingdoms.” Arya says. “I’ve seen that girl with a blade. She managed to outshine, even for a little while, a crannogman of the Neck. I wonder if she’s interested to come along with me to the Sunset Sea. I could use extra hands, especially young ones.”

Sansa swallows at that and Arya sees the displeasure in her careful and elegant features. She doesn’t want to offend her sister, but she doesn’t like being dishonest, either. “Why is it that my siblings suddenly pop out of nowhere and demand to take away my adopted daughter as if it’s so easy.” She sighs.

Arya takes her arm and leads her across the crypts. “You don’t have to stress yourself about it now, sweet sister.” She tells Sansa, who seems to lighten at her affectionate touch. “But you can’t make decisions for her forever. Jon was her age when he went to take the black.”

“And he told me, we should have never left Winterfell.” Sansa counters.

Arya looks up as they climb the stone steps towards the halls. “I suppose that’s true.” She says. “Do you have any lemon cakes?”

Sansa merely glances at her and laughs.

_**Alona** _

“I hate this!” Jen exclaims and throws his washcloth against the tiles. “Why do we have to clean this stupid roof?” He groans and rakes his fingers across his hair, frustration evident in his wide dark eyes.

Alona says nothing as she continues to scrub at the stubborn stains marked by dirt and snow. They are both sitting at the top of the castle’s west wing by the orders of queen Sansa and lady Reed. They will be spending the weeks cleaning walls and dusting windows as punishment for what happened the morning princess Arya came back to Winterfell.

“This isn’t punishment for being out at night. In fact, lady Reed and I are proud the two of you held your own against a supposed intruder.” Queen Sansa told them as they stood in front of her great table in one of the meeting halls. The lady Meera had smiled triumphantly when princess Arya recounted how observant they were of their surroundings. Alona felt a sense of warmth in her heart at the queen’s look of pride. “However, you are being reprimanded for making use of bladed weapons without the permission of your queen. And most importantly, having pointed them at each other.”

“It was just an arrow, your grace.” Alona tried to reason, her fingers meekly intertwining with each other as she looked down at her feet. “I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“Your bickering was so loud, I’m surprised you haven’t cut each other’s throats before I came in.” Princess Arya drawled out.

“For the gods’ sake, mother. I had a spear, not a sword.” Jen rolled his eyes.

“ _Jojen Reed_.” The lady Meera said. “Watch your mouth. You are in the presence of the queen.”

Jen glared at the floor in response as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, if someone hadn’t picked up her bow that night – “

“And this is my fault?” Alona raised her voice, prompting a slightly shocked and amused expression on the women’s faces.

“My room was in the bloody floor next to the yard. And you put me there. Don’t think I don’t know.” Jen retaliated, his temper flaring and prompting Alona’s irritation to rise.

“I didn’t ask you to get your – your s-stupid spear. I – “ She always had a tendency to start stuttering when upset and in front of the queen. For a moment, queen Sansa looked as if she wanted to take Alona in her arms and soothe her negative emotions away. The way she used to long ago.

 _But I am no longer a child_ , Alona thought to herself. So she raised her head and said, “I apologize, your grace. I do not accept this punishment as just.”

“And I appreciate your honesty.” The queen Sansa replied. “But the lady Meera and I think this would also be a good chance for you and the young lord Jen to be able to reconcile with one another as well as regain your friendship.”

Jen scoffed and Alona mentally lamented.

“At least, you can help with household preparations for when the northern houses arrive.” Princess Arya supplied, her smile sickly sweet.

Alona supposes they are right in some way. She’d always found pleasure in helping with castle duties, and thinks the collective action of everyone in the North has been one of the key factors in its success. Of course, leadership passed down by blood is still prone to breeding abusive kings and queens like the ones in the stories. It’s lead her to reconsider her own position in Winterfell. The future it holds for her now that the true heir of queen Sansa has returned.

Jen splashes water over the roofs and it drenches half of Alona’s sleeve. “Hey.” She yells at him.

He doesn’t apologize and instead scrubs down hard against the tiles, the muscles on his forearms becoming more pronounced under the sunlight. Alona tries not to stare at them, to remember a time when he had held her close. “I can’t believe my own mother still treats me like a child.” He grumbles.

“It’s because you act like one.” Alona tells him.

Jen makes a face at her. “I’m a year passed the age of majority.” He tells her, reaching up to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. “Unless you’ve forgotten. We do share a nameday.”

“Unfortunately.” Alona replies. “A lot of other kingdoms actually consider seventeen as a child’s age, still.” Alona comments as she focuses on a stubborn stain.

“But we aren’t in other kingdoms, so we aren’t children anymore.” Jen replies, his hair falling to kiss his eyelids. He tries to blow it away from his face, but it settles back down. Clicking his tongue, he swipes the curls back with a damp hand and says, “Stupid bloody hair.”

Alona almost smiles at his boyishness. That no matter how much he declares his maturity, there are antics he can’t quite let go. But she remembers what they’ve went through. The rise and fall and continuing tangled mess of their relationship, and it causes her to refocus on the task.

For a while, they are both quiet and they let the comforting bustle of work down below echo through the air. And then suddenly, Alona looks at him again and feels the longing of his attention power through at the back of her throat. Out of the blue, she says, “I had a dream that night.”

Jen raises an eyebrow at her, but stops his scrubbing. “What was it about?” His voice is carefully levelled and Alona knows he’s trying not to show he cares.

“I was at the crypts and I saw Lyanna Stark’s rotting body crying for her father and her son, Visenys. And then – “ Alona breathes out and sits up straight, her legs folded beneath her as the wind passes by. “And then, something started choking me down in the dark. He tells me we’re all going to die and he’s going to feed us to his dogs.”

Jen frowns at that.

“I haven’t felt that kind of fear since I was a child.” Alona continues. “I’d been so angry, I had to – I had to feel like I was in power again, so…”

Jen nods. “Sometimes picking up a weapon is the only way.”

“But it isn’t.” Alona says, her expression twisting in frustration. “It isn’t supposed to be. If we fixed ourselves by hurting other things, then what would happen to the world?” _What would that make me?_

Jen looks up at her and his eyes turn into a bright shade of brown, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. She rarely sees him without a smug, amused, or displeased expression on his face. And witnessing him with a semblance of concern makes her heart race. “Sometimes we hurt, even though we don’t mean it.” He says, finally. “I don’t know the answer to healing anger. I taste the fire inside me all the time. But, if you dream like that again – “ He stops and looks away. “Wake me up.”

Alona doesn’t know what to say and so resorts to a lighter tone, “Last year, I told you I wouldn’t knock on your window again, lord Reed.”

Jen grins at that, softness fading away in an instant, and draws nearer to Alona. “That’s not really what I meant, but if you’d like to pick up where we left off all those months ago – “

Before Alona could douse his flirtations with the reminder of what he did to ruin their relationship, they are both cut off when the sound of horse hooves travel from the meadows over the castle walls. The two of them climb their way to the ledges and peek across the grasslands where dozens of parties are travelling towards Winterfell, their flags waving in the air.

“Dustin, Glover, Hornwood.” Jen dictates the incoming northern houses. “Manderly, Poole, Mollen.”

“Seaworth, Tallhart, and – “ Alona halts as she sees the banner closest to the last party. An image of a huntsman on a green background. “That’s the sigil of house Tarly.” She and Jen share a curious glance. 

“What in seven hells are they doing here, so damn far from the Reach?” Jen asks.

Alona doesn’t know but house Tarly means uncle Samwell, the Grand Maester, as well as aunt Gilly and their boys. Lady Talla Tarly would be there, too, along with her twin children.

“My lord Reed!” Maester Wolkan’s voice calls after Jen and they look back to find the maester standing in one of the walkways. “My lady! The queen requires your presence for the meeting with the northern houses.”

“Well, we’re about to find out.” Alona tells Jen before gathering her things and climbing down the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jen recalls distant memories and feels the pressure of growing responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lengthy chapter. This wasn't mostly supposed to be from Jen's perspective, but I kinda wanted to write about him, too. Enjoy!
> 
> NOTE: Alright, so I edited this chapter because there were apparently certain details about characters in this chapter where I kindaaa got something wrong. Will include explanations for the corrections at the end notes.

_**Jen** _

The welcoming is more formal than when the Reeds came to Winterfell, and the grimness in the air almost chokes the life out of Jen. He stands at his mother’s right as all of the main houses gather in the great hall. Queen Sansa gracefully regards them behind the high table with princess Arya beside her, like two wolves staring down at their packs.

Jen itches to adjust the neckline of his tunic. Dressed in green with a thick brown cloak fastened to his chest by a silver diamond, he tries to hold himself with unbothered confidence. He is the heir to house Reed and though his lady mother still has the authority to make him wash roofs and wipe tables, in this great hall he is acknowledged as the future Lord of Greywater Watch.

“My lords.” Queen Sansa smiles at them with that small and enigmatic way the Starks always do. “My ladies. Welcome to Winterfell. I am glad to be surrounded, once more, by the northern houses in preparation for the Summer. It is with pleasure that I offer my home to you in the hopes that our efforts will be fruitful not only for our houses, but for the people who rely on us.”

“Aye.” Many of the lords bark in enthusiastic voices.

A man with a long dark beard steps in at that and bows before the queen. _Lord Manderly_ , Jen notes with a keen stare. The space he filled up, now abandoned, gives way to the view of his wife and children. And behind them, several more familiar faces.

The northern houses had been gathering in Winterfell almost every year since before Jen was born, so he knows almost all the highborn children his age. From the ones he liked the most to the ones he’d gladly throw a chair at. His eyes dart back to Lord Manderly as the man addresses the queen with a loud and jovial voice, “It is with great honor that we stand here before you today, your grace. We all know this tradition has proven effective for almost twenty years.” Many mutter their agreement, heads bobbing in nods around the hall. “I would also like to greet my fellow lords and ladies. We’ve all been granted another year of life.”

Laughter roars over their heads and Jen smiles. He often marvels at these aged men and women around him, how many of them had lived through the war against the White Walkers and the Night King. How they had seen for themselves the silver hair of the Dragon Queen and her terrifying, flying babes. He looks at his lady mother and realizes she is one of the only few around the room who was not present during all the fighting.

He knows his grandfather, Howland, had been a secluded man. Strict in his grip to protect the Neck. He never once set foot outside their territories even before everything escalated to burning King’s Landing all those years ago.

He wants to ask her how it feels, to have been lost in the thicket of grief and the unkind eye of a cold parent who refuses to pick up his spear once more. But the question gets stuck in his throat every time, and he manages to forget it along the way.

“Soon our children will be taking the lead after us.” Another man steps in, tall with grey hair tied back. Lord Hornwood. _Righteous in Wrath_ , their words. “Hopefully, we might even have a wedding this turn of the season.” The houses raise voices of delight at that and Jen’s eyes dart down at his feet, feeling a jab of panic in his chest.

“Your daughter and my son?” Lord Manderly jokes and they all have another wild laugh. At the corner of the crowd, Jen sees, in comical unison, the faces of their two children flicker in horror.

“We’ll see, we’ll see.” Lord Hornwood indulges him with an amused smile.

 _They’re going to kill us with embarrassment_ , Jen laments and is thankful his lady mother isn’t as loud as these northern lords. Still, the idea of getting married does not leave him and he wonders if she had been thinking about it. If she had been planning something behind his back.

Wedding. Marriage. He’s seventeen, a proper age to be wed and to start breeding his own children. But in the middle of the haze of fiery fun and magic and _Alona_ , he’d pushed the thought at the back of his mind. He wants to push it back farther, to bask in the idea that he still has time to waste his youth and find his soul in the wilderness before fulfilling his duty. But he knows he no longer has that luxury.

He looks across the room and sees the quickly shared glance between queen Sansa and princess Arya. He wets his lips and takes a deep inaudible breath.

Why does he feel as if this month is going to be a somersault?

Jen had been eight the first time he stepped foot in Winterfell. He had looked up at the large castle, their towers and windows and doors covered in snow. Whenever the sunlight spilled over the walls, the Winter land would glow a bright golden shade and he would lay down on the ivory blankets, his arms feeling the cold beneath his furs.

It had been so different from the grasslands and blooming flowers of Greywater Watch. From their swamps and beautifully made crannogs, its green vines and polished stones wrapped over huts to protect them from the rain. In here, there were no trees save for those in the godswood. And he was not always permitted to have a spear with him.

Meera had laughed at his happiness as she picked him up and dusted the frost from his hair. “Do you like it here?” She asked him, holding him close to her. The image of his father invading the memory as he passed by to plant a kiss on his son’s cheek. Years before he died from a grave sickness. Jyana had been four, a waddling toddler who liked listening to grown-ups talk.

“I love it!” He had proclaimed, his limbs restless from uncontainable energy. “Let’s stay here forever!”

Queen Sansa had a fondness for him then, perhaps because he was her dearest friend’s son. She used to give him lemon cakes and wipe the stains from the corner of his mouth at every mealtime. It was during those feasts and dinners when he had first caught a glimpse of the girl named Alona Snow – the ward of Winterfell.

 _A bastard_ , he’d heard one of the lords mutter. Though he was young, he knew what that word meant. And he had avoided her, just like all the other children of the northern houses. It was, after all, improper for highborn boys to mingle with baseborns. So he had filled his days sparring and shooting with the sons of lords, frequently playing in the hours after training as the daughters would come down from their embroidery lessons to join.

But then one day, as he was out riding with the men, something had spooked his horse and he fell down, injuring his left arm. He wasn’t allowed to partake in any adventures for the rest of that month and had to endure being tended to by maester Wolkan and the septas.

He had been angry, feeling weak and useless in his stupid bed with a stupid cast wrapped around his limb. (He never got over horses after that, always preferring to walk than to ride. Unless someone else controlled the reins for him.)

It was in an uneventful afternoon when the door to his room opened while he lay there, doing absolutely nothing. He had turned his head to the approaching figure and felt his eyebrows draw together in confusion. Standing in front of him with a steaming cup was a stick thin girl with dark hair braided back, revealing a small nose and large violet eyes. _Bastard_ , his brain immediately thinks.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” He told her.

“Her grace says I’m to bring you your medicine.” She replied, her face unreadable.

“Where’s maester Wolkan?”

“He’s busy reading.”

Jen frowned at that and looked at the cup. “I don’t want it. Tell my lady mother I want _her_ to give me my medicine.”

“Lady Reed is off with the queen.” She said, unrelenting yet oddly calm.

“My lord father then.”

“Riding with the men.”

Jen had puffed his cheek and sat upright in an attempt to stare her down. She merely blinked at him. “I’m not drinking that. Not from you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and said, “Maester Wolkan says you’re to take this now.”

“You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a highborn lord.” Jen quipped at her, his pride easily injured. “You’re just a bastard.”

She seemed to seethe at that and Jen thought she would throw the boiling tea at him. But instead, she marched up to his bedside and slammed the cup on the wood. She left without another word, childish feet stomping in the hallway.

It was only after his door had been closed did he hear her scream in frustration, his eyes going wide.

He continued to see her more often after that (Or perhaps, notice was the right word.) She served the highborn with flagons of wine too big for her hands. Trays of bread and cheese passed around by her fellow servants. At times when the queen was holding a meeting with the northern lords and ladies, he would peek between the cracks of the open door and see her standing there, ready to run an errand if need be.

They struck the first strand of their unusual friendship when Jen had stumbled in on maester Wolkan teaching her the words and banners of notable houses. “Lord Jen.” The maester had called out to him when he stepped in through the door, his curiosity nudged in by boredom. “Come in. Join us.”

He sat beside her and stared before asking, “What are you doing?”

“Learning, my lord.” The maester answered. He then pointed his stick to a certain part of the map. “House?”

“Tully.” Alona answered quickly. “Words: Family, duty, honor.”

“Seat?”

“Riverrun.”

“Very good.” He then pointed his stick to another location. “House.”

“Arryn. The Eyrie.” Alona said. “Lannisters of Casterly Rock.” She responded when the maester immediately moved his stick. “Baratheons of the Stormlands.”

“Storm’s End, to be exact.” Maester Wolkan said. “And what about this one?”

Alona tilted her head, her face a clear sign of contemplation. “The Neck.”

“Greywater Watch!” Jen had perked up enthusiastically. He looked at her, smiling proudly. “That’s where I come from.”

“The Reeds.” Alona nodded, her face solemn. “Crannogmen.”

“Why don’t you tell us about your home, lord Jen.” Maester Wolkan encouraged with a warm smile.

“Greywater Watch has lots of swamps and the grass is taller than me.” Jen said as he fiddled with one of the wooden figures on the table. A wolf hunched in and baring its teeth. “It doesn’t snow there. But sometimes it rains and sometimes it’s _really_ hot. And we’ve got tons of trees and fruits and flowers. They grow everywhere.” He held out his free arm, the one without the cast. “Not like here in Winterfell.”

“We’ve got flowers.” Alona informed him.

“Right we do.” Maester Wolkan nodded as he observed the children.

“Really?” Jen whipped around to look at her before repeating in a much more composed tone, “I mean, I haven’t seen anything. It’s all snow.”

“We call them winter roses.” Alona replied, jutting out her chin and smiling a little. “They’re blue.”

“There are no blue flowers.” Jen countered, shaking his head.

Maester Wolkan chuckled at that. “Why don’t you show our young lord Reed here where the flowers are, Alona?”

Alona, ever the dutiful ward, did as she was told. She led Jen down the castle and out into the white expanse of Winterfell. They walked and walked, and he had not realized this place had so much windings and shadows, until they reached the godswood where the red leaves of the weirwood tree stared down at them like a flaming cloud – the face on the trunk carved out in eerie silence.

“Look. There’s a bunch of them now.” Alona had told him, suddenly cheerful, as she ran to the bushes near the frozen pond. Shyly peeking back at them were a bundle of blue frost roses, their scent filling the air with a sweet and lemony taste. “Do you want one?” She turned to him, her purple eyes glowing beneath the sunlight.

“Can I?” Jen asked, completely enchanted by the beautiful blossoms, his fingers wanting to reach out and run a finger across the petals.

“Sure.” Alona replied before plucking the largest one and handing it to him. “So you won’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That blue flowers exist.” She shrugged and grinned at him. A rare sight, even when they continued to grow up together within the cold walls of Winterfell.

Jen skims through the memories at times, especially when he glances down the road to see the winter roses wilting with the incoming heat. They had kept their connection outside of the loud and lively environment of highborn life and the other children’s judgements. Would meet “unintentionally” in the library to read after training, passing notes during feasts and sneaking out further into the woods when no one was watching.

The queen Sansa had begun to slowly integrate Alona into the company of the noble children by the time they were ten, and it had been a difficult process. It was hard for the girls not to whisper about her during embroidery lessons and for the boys not to whip out insults at her during training. And when they played, they would opt her out of groups until tensions rose high and everything ends up in a fight.

The friction didn’t do well for their friendship. Jen had a short temper and couldn’t stand Alona’s sulky personality. Alona was quick to offend and disliked the way Jen acted recklessly. They both hated being teased for their obvious and not obvious closeness, and perhaps that had been one of the reasons why the girl lost her patience with everybody years later.

 _Even me_ , Jen thinks with a sigh. But after the incident last year. After the mess the two of them had done, tampering with magic and love and anger all at once – well, he supposes he really can’t blame her.

He’s trying not to.

Jen leans back against his chair at one of the high tables and tries to drown out the sound of the feast musically throbbing around them. Chugging down a mug of ale, he catches his sisters’ eyes and raises an eyebrow.

“Mother says you shouldn’t drink too much.” Jyana tells him, lifting her chin up in that prim and proper manner she had learned from the other young ladies in Winterfell.

“I don’t care.” Jen drawls out as he looks down at his mug, noting the quick decrease of his drink with a frown. “She can yell at me all she wants later, but for now, dear sister, I would like to enjoy my time.” A roar of laughter echoes through the great hall and he looks towards the center where the crowd is the thickest. People are dancing, already drunk for the night, as the last northern cold stretches on.

“Can I have some?” Janela cheerfully reaches out with small hands.

“No!” Jyana tells her sister as Jen coughs out a laugh.

“You’re too young for this, Nel.” Jen tells the child, who had resorted to pouting. He takes a plate of lemon cakes too far out of her reach and slides it across the table. “For now, though, you can have your sweets.”

“I want ale!” Janela protests. “I’m a big girl!”

“Seven hells.” Jyana groans. “You can barely hold a spear.”

“I can so!” Janela turns red and Jen wonders if a five-year-old can pop a vein. “I’m better than you! I’m better than all of you!”

“You’re noisy and you’re annoying.” Jyana says, her face flushing with irritation.

Jen interjects calmly, “Both of you are, actually.”

Both girls stop at that and Jen waits for the first one to explode. It is, of course, Janela. The child’s face contorts into a sob and she starts crying. “I’m telling mama.” She threatens with a squeaking rage before she hops down from her chair and makes her way towards the queen’s table. She travels underneath the thick cloth and emerges on their mother’s lap. The woman tries not to spill her wine on the queen.

The lady Meera Reed shoots her eldest children an inquisitive and pointed look to which Jen only shrugs. Turning back to Jyana, he leans forward and points at her with the mug. “For the record, you were just as insufferable at that age.”

Jyana narrows her eyes at him and squares her shoulders. _Ever the trueborn heir truly fit to rule over the Neck_ , Jojen thinks with a surprising lack of bitterness. “I will have you know that I am a woman of noble birth and have always disposed myself as such.”

“Being noble doesn’t mean you’re immune to being an arrogant little snot.” Jen comments nonchalantly as he drains his ale. Slamming it back down, he says, “In another world, our blood wouldn’t mean shit to anyone.”

Jyana looks at him in confusion, the notion odd to her. _As it had been to me and Alona not so long ago_ , he thinks as his mind starts to curl and pulse from the lights and the drinking. “And what world would that be, brother?” she asks him.

Jen shrugs and makes a move to stand. “Probably, a better one.”

He means to excuse himself from both his mother and the queen before he retires early for the night. But before he could even leave the table, his view is blocked out by a tall young man with black hair and a muscular build. “Reed.” He greets with a small smile, his eyes looking down at Jen.

Behind him came up another boy who was smaller and slimmer, his hair a mop of dark brown and his face holding softer features. He stops behind his obviously larger brother and crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows wiggling at Jen. “Leaving so soon?”

“Sam!” Jyana exclaims, all of her ladylike propriety shedding off the moment she stands and runs to the lankier boy. She throws her arms around him and Sam lifts her up with an inaudible grunt, his eyes widening a fraction from the unexpected weight and making Jen’s face break out into a grin. “By the gods, you’re heavier now compared to the last time I saw you.”

“Three years is a lot, you know.” His brother comments, saying the last two words in that soft and light way his father, Samwell Tarly, does. “It’s nice to see you again, Reed. Or – Reeds.” He corrects himself when Jyana turns to him, her face bearing no indication of wanting to be left out. “We didn’t get the chance to talk earlier, what with all the formalities.” He says.

“Dysmond.” Jen nods at the burlier boy. “Sam.” He turns to the one Jyana was still clutching to. “Glad to see both of you faring well.”

Sam, sometimes called Little Sam, is the Grand Maester’s eldest by his lover, the lady Gilly. Dysmond is their second son. The stark contrast between the brothers had once baffled Jen enough for him to question whether or not they were really brothers. Dysmond obviously inherited much of the build of the Tarly side, his voice smooth and his manner straightforward. Sam, on the other hand, took much from his mother. A slighter frame, hardened by swordplay, and an easy smile.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up at that. “So formal.” He teases. Then, looking around, he asks, “Where’s Snow?”

Jen shrugs and pretends he hasn’t been looking for her since parting earlier. “Probably out reading somewhere.”

“Well, I don’t know about you but I’d want to talk to her about the rumors going on here.” Dysmond says and Sam shoots him a look that says, _shut it._

Jen frowns, “What rumors?”

The brothers glance at each other and Jyana looks back at him with concern. “You really don’t know?” Sam asks to which the siblings shake their heads. He bites his lip in hesitation and Jen can see him way the pros and cons of spitting it out. But then, he seems to think it won't hurt, so he leans in and whispers to them above the noise of the drunken crowd. “We hear she’s going to be a Stark soon.”

When Jen pulls away, he feels himself stare. Jyana has that dumbfounded look on her face that’s usually funny, but not at this moment. Looking back at the high table, he sees the queen laughing with princess Arya on her left and conversing with the Grand Maester Samwell Tarly on her right. His lady mother had switched places with the man to sit beside Lord Dustin, their body language not spiking up at anything serious.

“She didn’t mention anything to me.” Jen says in a low voice.

“Well, that’s a damn surprise.” Dysmond comments as he produces a mug of ale from the gods know where. “You two had always been whispering to each other, with your slimy little secrets.”

“Hardly anything slimy there, Dys.” Jen rolls his eyes.

“I guess it’s a bit under the rug for now.” Sam says. “The only way we found out was because…”

He trails off and Jen grabs him by the shoulders. “Seven hells, Sam. I’m not in the mood for the suspense.” He shakes him, earning a laugh from the boy. He grins in return.

“Alright, alright.” Sam tells him between chuckles, but then his face goes serious. “Now, don’t be angry. But, we think… the queen means to make Alona a Stark and have her marry Keylon.”

“Gods be good.” Jyana says and all three look at her with raised eyebrows. She counters, “What? _You’re_ not surprised?” She gestures to her older brother.

Jen is shocked. He’s more than shocked. He’s flabbergasted. He leans back against the table behind him and slides a glance at the people dancing. “A Stark and a Tarly?” He questions as his eyes land on a pair of twins holding hands and giggling as they twirl amidst the music. Keylon Tarly is the twin of Marra Fossoway, and the heir to Horn Hill. Both are children of lady Talla Tarly and her husband, Symun Fossoway. But because the son is expected to be Lord of Horn Hill one day, they had changed his last name to favor his mother. 

_Sixteen and sweet_ , Jen often hears whenever other people speak of the twins. Their features are child-like, and their energies vibrant, taking after the lady Talla who had inherited most of the brown curls and kind eyes from her own mother - the lady Melessa Tarly. _Would Alona like the idea of being his wife?_

Jen can’t rack his brain for an advantageous political reason as to why the queen Sansa would want her ward to be married to a Tarly, especially since the house was already a good ally of the North through her friendship with the Grand Maester.

Dysmond suddenly snorts and Jen is brought back to reality. “Can you imagine Snow in the Reach? She’d be miserable.”

“I think she’d be pretty in Southener dresses.” Jyana says.

Sam nods at that. “I agree.” He says. “But unhappy, nevertheless.” His eyes dart towards Jen at that and the latter rakes his fingers across his straw colored curls.

“Well, it’s just a rumor, right?” He smirks, but it feels half hearted. _Right?,_ he wants to repeat but thinks better of it.

He takes up the boys’ offer to train when the morning comes and thinks he the release of energy would be good for him. Summer is, after all, fast approaching. And with it, the pressure of growing up and strengthening alliances. He thinks of Greywater Watch tucked far within the Neck and wonders if he’ll have to do something to ensure its political protection as well.

He knows he will. He just isn’t quite sure if he can manage as easily as he hopes.

**_Jon_ **

Jon Snow lays a hand on Balerya’s belly and comforts her with a hush. Inside his tent, she lies on her side, her breathing ragged in the cold night. Ghost can’t help but sit beside her, his crimson eyes boring into his human as if the latter could do anything to alleviate the pain of birth.

“It’s going to be alright.” He tells Balerya as the direwolf whines. Her stomach contracts and Jon knows the pups are near.

Tormund bends and looks over at them. “How is she?”

“Pups aren’t coming out yet.”

“You can do it, right girl?” Tormund runs his hand over the direwolf’s head. He looks at Jon and says, “It’s unusually cold tonight.”

Jon’s felt it, too. He tries to ignore the biting chill and the unpleasant memories it brings. “It is.”

Tormund and him stare at each other knowingly before they turn their attention back to Balerya.

Summer is supposed to be near. So, why doesn’t it feel like it?

_Why does it feel like something's about to go wrong?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those who have read the original version of this chapter, I stated that both Marra and Keylon are given the last name Tarly. But I completely forgot that in the GOT series, Talla Tarly was betrothed to Symun Fossoway. This would normally make his children Fossoways as well. But since Talla is also Lady of Horn Hill and is expected to provide an heir for her house, I only made Keylon a Tarly (Probably after some form of legal process done on the part of the maesters in King's Landing and with, of course, Samwell's participation). Marra remains a Fossoway, because it's not likely in this situation for her to be heir to house Tarly. This is also assuming that Symun Fossoway is a minor member of his house and not expected to have heirs for the Fossoway side.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya's secret digs deep in her bones as Sansa plans for the North's security.  
> Jon is met with a new ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've updated with a chapter to this fic. Hoping you'll enjoy it tho!

**_Arya_ **

Arya is staring at Sansa. She’s staring at her sister with an intensity amplified by the secret she holds beneath her tongue. And for all of her strength and fearlessness and reputation for danger, she could not find the words to tell the Queen in the North that her only heir, by virtue of bloodline, is –

“Good morning.” Sansa greets. She is standing by the kitchen tables as the cooks go about their work. The smell of mushroom and cream wafts through the air, reminding Arya that she is no longer in some deep dark stranger’s hut in a land far across the Sunset Sea. She is in Winterfell, and this is home.

This is home.

“Hi.” Arya tries for a smile.

“Are you alright?” There is a slight furrow between Sansa’s eyebrows and Arya swallows down the slight anxiety hovering over her. “You look tense.”

“I’m always tense.” Arya says with the most nonchalant voice she could manage.

“No, you’re not.” Sansa responds and the lightness in her voice is joined with a knowingness Arya tries not to flinch at.

The sunlight pours over the kitchens and Sansa grabs an apple to inspect it. Arya knows her sister is thoroughly involved with the domestics of the castle, especially now that the other northern houses are residing within. “Apple pie for breakfast?”

Sansa confirms with a hum as she places the red fruit down on the table. She rubs her hands together, her eyes scanning over the food as if she were making battle plans and not meals. “Pie and honeyed bacon and cheeses and buttered bread.” She says. “For everyone in the castle, of course. Not just our honorable lords and ladies.”

Arya’s lip twitches up at that and she feels a sense of pride for her sister. When they were girls, Sansa had an air of pompous entitlement. Selfish without appearing to be. She’d treated people according to their hierarchy, with servants having to do their jobs and highborn ladies having to hold their gazes high. But she’d always been polite with everyone. Perhaps, that had been the first few traces that would soon develop towards her efforts for a just treatment of the northern people.

Arya doesn’t regret leaving Winterfell. She had always been made for adventures. Seeking new places and learning new cultures, bringing back treasures she’d been given afterwards. But there had always been a slight guilt somewhere in her heart for leaving Sansa to bear the burden not just of running their home but also of having to live with all of their ghosts.

Although Bran and Jon are also away, she knows they’re not lonely. Bran is the King of the Six Kingdoms and being the three-eyed raven had given him a sense of emotional clarity – Arya isn’t sure if he could even _feel_ any sadness at all. Jon is with Tormund and the rest of his freefolk family travelling the lands beyond the Wall, Ghost probably prodding along behind them.

Arya misses them. She misses them so much, it hurts sometimes.

“You’re doing it again.” Sansa’s voice brings her back.

“What?” Arya’s tone is defensive despite the smile she cracks.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Sansa tells her. “This is Winterfell, Arya. You’re safe here.”

Arya smirks. “Even if I were in danger, I wouldn’t quake.”

“I know, Night King Slayer.” Sansa uses the name with an amused tone. “But I’m still your older sister. It’s my job to protect you.”

Arya wants to scoff at that. To tell her, of course she knows she’s home and she’s safe. But her secret digs deep within her and all she manages is a soft nod that makes her sister squeeze her hand for half a second.

The great hall is ten times a bustle than it was before the northern houses came. Old lords laugh with their voices like rumbling thunder while the low and velvety tones of ladies travel in the undercurrent. Suddenly, the castle is filled with colors of Summer. Gone are the greys, blacks, and dark browns of Winter as the frost gathers by the base of their wide glass windows. Everything is replaced with lighter shades of ash and maple sprinkled here and there with baby blues, pinks, maroons, and grass greens. Little girls walk by in dainty frocks, their hair pulled up with yellow ribbons. Little boys run around wearing viridian tunics.

“I feel as if we’re in the South.” Arya comments drily.

“Believe it or not, the pop of color during the Summer has been a tradition for almost twenty years.” Sansa tells her as she settles herself on the oak chair at the high table. She is dressed in a dark blue gown, its sleeves embroidered with the fish scales of house Tully.

“You think father is rolling in his grave because of it?” Arya teases.

“I do.” Sansa answers. “But I’m sure mother is pleased enough for him to keep quiet.”

They both giggle at that before a shadow falls over them. Arya looks up and sees the sweet familiar face of Samwell Tarly smiling sheepishly at them. Although he’d grown out his dark beard since becoming Grand Maester, the kind round eyes make him unmistakable. Dressed in the robes of his title, the golden chains hanging about his neck, he looks almost wise and ancient. _I suppose he is now, after all these years._

“Your grace.” He bows to Sansa. “Your highness.” And then to Arya.

“Grand Maester.” Sansa drawls out with just the right amount of politeness and pleasure to make Sam melt in comfort. “Come. Break your fast with us.” She gestures to the seat in front of them.

Arya side glances Sansa, picking up at the offer given to Sam. It’s true that the Grand Maester is an old friend and inviting him for breakfast doesn’t seem odd. But everything her sister does has a reason. A meaning. Every stride, every word. _What are you up to, sweet sister?_

“Where’s Gilly?” Arya asks as she sips her morning tea. She fights off a grimace at the taste, remembering the strong black liquid she used to take in the Sunset Sea. She’d met voyagers native to soil where beans are brewed and turned into drinks. _Coffee_ , she remembers the name. She’d left some beans as token from those brave friends at King’s Landing and quietly grieves at the mistake.

“She’s helping out in the kitchens.” Sam inclines his head before following it up quickly, “I mean, I told her she doesn’t need to, but you know Gilly. She can’t sit still in idle chatter.”

Sansa smiles and says, “Well, if that makes her happy.” She starts slicing through her eggs. “How are the boys?”

“Both are well. Dysmond adjusts easily in the yards with the others his age. Although I think he misses the forests of Horn Hill and is itching for a hunt.” Sam says, a twinkle of fondness in his eyes. “Little Sam, on the other hand, has always been more flexible than his brother. Sometimes he’s out there doing swordplay. Sometimes, he’s in the library reading books.”

“That one’s a scholar.” Sansa says with an impressed tone.

“Aye.” Sam agrees. “Although he’s more into literature than medicines and records.”

“Is he a poet?” Arya asks, genuinely curious. Little Sam had been brought here from beyond the Wall long before the white walkers came, and during that time he’d still been Craster’s son and not Sam’s. She wonders what he’s like as a man grown, nineteen and the eldest among the new generation of young nobles.

“That and a storyteller.” Sam replies with a grin. “Girls go all wild for him back in King’s Landing.”

“He’s going to break a dozen hearts or so if he chooses to be a maester like you.” Sansa comments.

“I doubt he’d like that path.” Sam purses his lips as he forks his sausage. “He’s a little too interested in… the pleasures of life. Takes after his mother.”

_The wildling blood._ The term hangs between them, but not with tension. Arya knows that in King’s Landing, despite Gilly’s respectable status as head of the citadel’s household affairs and their boys legitimized by Bran, there are still some who whisper awful things about them. About Gilly being a savage whore and their boys being bastards.

But in Winterfell, their family is always welcome. They have been, even before the war. Sam was, after all, Jon’s dearest friend from their time at the Wall.

“By the way, I’ve wondered.” Sansa turns to Arya. “Why does it seem like you and Samwell didn’t meet in King’s Landing?”

“Oh.” Sam wipes his mouth. “I was in Horn Hill when Arya docked. It had been Talla’s nameday and the King gave me a month off.”

Arya watches Sansa’s eyes flicker up, but without the usual stiffness. “I see. I must remember to greet her a belated congratulations, then. How is my little brother?”

Sam devours a slice of bread and replies through a mouthful, “His grace is good. His health is well, although sometimes there’s a pain around his hips, probably from the weight of his legs. But overall, his rule is just and people are thriving. We can only hope to have someone as good as him by the time the next election comes.” He swallows. “Hopefully not anytime soon, of course.”

Arya tears apart a cherry pastry at the memory of how King’s Landing had attained its new form of monarchy. Elective – something that’s never been done in the history of the Seven Kingdoms ever since Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys landed on the shores of Dragonstone atop their scaled beasts. Although the ironborn still practiced the elections whenever a stalemate came between possible successors, it wasn’t famous around the other small kingdoms. Not even in the North.

She wonders what will happen by the time Bran dies. Or abdicates.

“Speaking of successions,” Sansa says conversationally and Arya’s attention is snapped back. “May I inquire about the matter I presented months ago regarding my ward, Grand Maester?”

Arya looks at Sansa and tries not to appear too inquisitive. “Alona.” She says it more like a sentence than a question.

“Ah, yes. Among the other documents you had me find.” Samwell replies excitedly. “I can assure you, you grace. The adoption is full speed ahead.”

“Adoption.”

“Repeating things won’t make it appear out of thin air, Arya.” Sansa says.

“I’m sorry.” Arya shakes her head slightly. “Am I to understand that you mean to formally adopt Alona? Thereby making her a Stark?”

“Well, it’s not impossible, your highness.” Sam says. “The child’s been considered unclaimed by a legal guardian other than Sansa. And the moment she turned sixteen gives the queen leverage in naming her a Stark.”

Arya stops at that, and decides not to express her doubts concerning this plan. Although she is legally the heir to Winterfell, she has enough respect for Sansa to not question her decisions in front of other people. “I see.” She says and now it’s her sister’s turn to give her a side glance.

“Well, if I may be excused.” Sam says. “I’m going to have to check on Gilly and make sure she’s had her breakfast as well. She’s been losing a bit of an appetite lately. It happens every time we travel.”

Sansa nods her head sympathetically and the sisters watch Sam go.

A few beats pass by before Arya hears her sister ask, “What is it?”

It’s a tone Arya knows all too well, and it’s one that’s just a little bit more demanding than the sweetness she’d been shown since arriving in Winterfell. She braves another sip of her tea and succeeds in not wincing again. “Is that the reason why you invited house Tarly?”

“One of the many.”

“Care to tell?” Arya asks, thanking the servant who dropped by to give them their morning soup.

“Well, I suppose I should start with the matter of trade.” Sansa says as she gracefully dives in to her broth. Their voices are so low, it barely rises above the noise within the great hall. “House Tarly has an overproduction of fruits, one that Bronn in his seat in Highgarden has not opted to deal with since the start of Summer in the Reach.”

Arya snorts lightly as she dunks her bread in the cream. “I’m surprised Bronn is still Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South.”

“Not for long.” Sansa says and Arya raises an eyebrow. “Don’t misunderstand.” The queen waves off. “I’m not plotting to do anything with the South. I have no interest. But house Tarly’s offers to bring these fresh apples and peaches from Horn Hill at a price cut half of what they’re worth.”

“And that price is?” Arya asks, her eyes scanning the great hall and landing on a thin man with blue eyes and long dark hair. Symun Fossoway, the husband of Talla. He’s laughing with the other lords, his wife nowhere to be seen.

“Well, one, getting all that fruit off of their hands. You won’t believe how much they have. They’ve managed to feed every family in Horn Hill, but there was still a lot left. It wouldn’t make them appear frugal in the eyes of their people if they throw these out.” Sansa says. “Two, they need the herbs of winter roses.”

“Why in seven hells – “

“Summer sickness.” Sansa answers quickly. “The people have been suffering from it, and the heat has been drying off their forests. Starting fires and whatnot. They need medicine.”

Arya frowns and nods. “Understandable.” She says, but feels as if something else is coming.

“Three,” There it is. “They need a marriage alliance.”

Arya opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Who?” She asks.

Sansa sips her tea before replying, “The son. Keylon is his name. Talla, Samwell, and I are thinking of arranging a betrothal between him and Alona once the girl is named a Stark.”

Arya’s eyebrows shoot up at that, but then she quickly switches to a more neutral expression when she remembers all the other houses can see them. Sansa’s body language is as easy as ever. “But the boy is heir to Horn Hill.”

“He has a sister. Marra Fossoway.” Sansa answers. “If Keylon marries into the Stark household through Alona, the sister will marry Dysmond Tarly. Together they will be the future Lord and Lady Tarly. Both houses will continue their lines.”

“Except they won’t.” Arya is confused, wondering where this idea had sprung up. “Alona doesn’t have the blood of a wolf.”

“No, but Keylon does.” Sansa says.

Arya stops and almost drops her spoon. She half turns to her sister and breathes out an almost exasperated question, “ _What?_ ”

Sansa dabs at her mouth with a blue cloth and Arya fights the urge to snatch it away and shake her sister silly. The queen looks at her and there is a steely certainty there that tells a story. She has thought all of this through. “Artos Stark was the brother of our great grandfather, Rodrik Stark. He married Lysara Karstark and had twin boys. Those boys had children of their own, and _their_ children married into other houses. One of them to house Florent.”

“Okay?”

“One of their descendants was Lady Ophelia of House Florent.” Sansa says. “Cousin to Sam’s mother, thrice removed. And also, mother to Symun Fossoway.”

“Gods be good.” Arya whispers, leaning her elbows on the table. There is a slight swimming sensation in her head and she tries to focus on the wooden flooring of the great hall lest she loses it. “So the Tarly twins have Stark blood.”

“Exactly.”

“Why are you doing this?” Arya asks, her tone almost accusatory it makes Sansa stare at her in response. She knows her sister is only doing what she can, with whatever she has. That this is a very logical way to ensure their bloodline survives. “I understand you’re fond of your ward. You love her like a daughter. But still – she’s a _Dayne_ , Sansa.”

Sansa’s face flushes a bright pink at that. “Allyria doesn’t want her.”

“You can’t just steal another house’s baby and make it your own, though.” Arya battles without thinking, feeling something within her that has become suddenly protective.

Sansa narrows her eyes at Arya, a questioning look plastered on her face. “Arya.” She says and takes her sister’s hand. The latter doesn’t withdraw it, despite her seemingly disapproving reaction. “I’m thirty-nine. Even if by some chance, I do decide I want to get married, I don’t think I’m going to be able to be with child. Jon is off beyond the Wall. Bran can never father children. And you don’t want to start a family of your own. I need an heir for Winterfell. For the North.”

“You have me.”

“And who comes after you?” Sansa asks not unkindly.

For a moment, Arya feels as if time has stopped. As if somewhere across the Narrow Sea, inside the black and white doors of Death where the Faceless Men have taken in a girl a thousand leagues from home, she is standing in front of the many facets of those who have stopped living. In Braavos, she had found some form of escape from the life she knew. And if she had stayed there, she would’ve left behind a complicated trail of turmoil. Knowing only an eternal moment of peace and calm and certainty.

But she wouldn’t have killed the Night King and they would all be dead by now.

So she whirls herself forward, facing the reality that it has been two decades since the war and time is not halting for any reason. She answers in a swift and clear motion, “My child.”

Sansa grows as still as a statue.

“Sansa, I’m pregnant.” Arya says to her sister. “This is why I came home. Or – one of.” She tries for a lighter tone but Sansa does not respond.

The queen leans back on her chair at that and Arya is suddenly worried of her reaction. _Is she mad? Disappointed? Would mother and father be as well?_ The questions surround her, making her feel eighteen and young and just a little bit lost again.

Sansa looks at her – three seconds of frightening silence – before replying. “I suppose… that throws the entire plan out of its original course.” She says, sipping the remnants of her breakfast tea. When she puts down her mug, she lets out a loud exhale, causing Arya to flinch. Still, the queen manages to offer her sister an upward tug of her lips. It’s almost a smile, and as she speaks her voice is much kinder than one of them expected. “I suppose we should hold a feast then. For my nephew.”

Sansa reaches under the table and squeezes Arya’s hand.

Arya almost bursts into tears.

**_Jon_ **

Ghost and Balerya’s new litter consists of only three pups, but Jon is astounded at the size of them. “Plump and monstrous things, the lot.” Tormund comments, snickering in amusement, as he watches the female direwolf nurse her babes. “Gave you a tough time, eh girl?”

Balerya merely regards the two men calmly, panting with a relieved glee of afterbirth glow. The pups make small noises against her- one white, one black, and one gray. The third ball of fur, the largest out of them, almost reminds Jon of Grey Wind. The memory of Robb bites him and he feels a chill pass by.

_Speaking of chill_ , he mentally says with a thoughtful frown as he wordlessly turns to exit the tent. Tormund follows him. “Johnna called in earlier. I think she and her sister’s got something to report.”

“I’m aware.” Jon replies with a grimness. Johnna and Willa were both daughters of Karsi and had been little more than seven and five, respectively, when an army of White Walkers attacked Hardhome, killing their mother and slaughtering the rest of the adults who’d stayed to fight on that icy blue day. The two girls had eventually grown up in this new society of wildlings years after the war, establishing themselves as renowned spearwives in the process of building their own families.

_Karsi would have been proud_ , Jon thinks with a hint of sadness. He and Tormund walk across the encampmen as the early evening bustle hits them with a comforting gentleness. Johnna and Willa have become such trustworthy members, every report from either of them held a weight worth anyone’s attention.

When Jon and Tormund reach the edge of the encampment, they see the older of the young women who acknowledges them with a single nod. She has her spear strapped to her back, her face tight with a level of seriousness that makes the two men wary. “Willa’s in the middle of an inspection.” She tells them.

Jon glances at the younger sister as she is seated on top of a spacious boulder, her head bent back at an angle that’s close to concerning. But the slackness of her body is nothing compared to the white and milky shade that has engulfed her pupils. A falcon slices through the sky above them, circling in repetitive rounds before disappearing into a mound of trees and reappearing once more.

They’d found out Willa was a warg by the time she reached nine, which was by those standards already late. But she had fared well, nevertheless, using her sacred abilities to scout the terrain. Though reliable and of age to care for herself, Jon makes sure to remind her to be careful every times she wargs into any animal.

His mind crawls back to Orell and wonders if he’d forgotten what it’s like to be human after Jon had killed him, leaving him trapped inside the body of an eagle. Once a man of flesh, loyal to a cause he believed in and fierce in his taste for touch, now a bird who would skewer through the cold beyond the Wall never to be recognized again.

“Is something wrong?” Jon asks Johnna as he pulls himself out of his own thoughts.

Johnna licks her lips and answers, “One of the rangers came back half an hour ago and told us they’d seen something in the paths.” Her brow furrows in barely concealed worry. “Broken branches, animal carcasses, and traces of firewood littered the area.”

Jon turns back to Tormund and they share a glance, their faces a mask of identical bewilderment. “Tell Willa to come down.” He tells Johnna.

With a whistle, Johnna signals for her sister to return. Willa’s body flinches for a moment before she lurches forward and breathes out, straightening herself as her eyes rolled back to normal. Jon waits for her to recover for a few moments before leaning down to ask, “What did you see?”

“I don’t think there’s any danger, but – “ Willa stops, hesitant. She blinks a few times, her sight readjusting to that of a human's. “But there is a small group heading towards our encampment. I counted eight adults and five children.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “What do you think they are?”

“They appear to be either a slightly large family or perhaps evacuees. Wanderers. They hold no weapons. At least, not like us.” Willa shakes her head in confusion and Jon understands where her bafflement comes from. They are at a generally unexplored portion of land beyond the Wall. It’s hard to think any village is existent anywhere farther this point.

“We’ll meet them then.” Jon instructs.

“I’ll gather a few people.” Tormund nods and barks out an order to the nearest wildling strolling through.

The group arrives a little later than expected and this gives Jon the impression that they must be civilians, as they probably had to rest ever so often. When they appear from the thicket of trees, they halt in fear at the sight in front of them and the wildlings hold fast to their own weapons, pointing the blades down but never taking their eyes off of the intruders. The group's men hold their arms out to protect the women and children. And though their faces are steely and determined, the shaking of their hands cannot conceal the probable agitation they're feeling.

“Who goes there?” Jon shouts from the line of defense.

An old man raises a hand, a version of a white flag, and says, “Smallfolk, my lord. We’ve come to seek food and shelter. As you can see…” he turns to his people. “We have children among us as well as elderly, like myself.”

Jon immediately sympathises with them. He glances down at their feet and notices the mud and unravelled stitches lining their boots – a testament to the long way they’ve come travelling through these uncertain woods. He looks to Tormund, silently asking for his friend’s input. When the red haired man gives a subtle nod, he turns back to the civilians and says, “We have supplies to spare for you and your people. Join us inside our encampment.”

A breath of relief escapes the old man and he bows his head. “Many thanks, my lord.”

Jon offers a small smile and ignores the way the other wildlings smirked at the title. “I’m no lord, good man. Call me Jon.”

Tormund scoffs from behind him and mutters. “Better to call you lord Crow.”

“How would you like it if I called you lord Giantsbane.” Jon threatens through a teasing tone and his friend barks out a harsh laugh.

“Oh, I’d be _honored_ if it came from the lord Snow himself.”

They allow the group to walk meekly towards their area of protection and Jon feels himself loosen as the children scattered upon seeing potential playmates.

When most of the adults have settled down inside the main tent, Jon finds out they came from a small community north east of the encampment. A line of houses too small to be called a village, surrounded by land they farmed on and filled with livestock. “Ours was a thriving place, I’d tell you that.” Mikel, the elderly who’d decided to take up the role as leader, says as he accepts a mug of ale from Jon. “Until everything started dying.”

Jon frowns at that and leans back on his seat. “Pestilence?”

Mikel shakes his head, his face haunted. “Nay, nothing of the sort. It was… unnatural. Evil.”

“How so?”

When the old man looks at Jon, the latter feels something familiar run down his spine. Like the way Old Nan had told him of tales about the White Walkers. How, many years after that, he’d seen them for himself. The dead rising to slice the bone out of the fragile human body, only to fall from the strike of dragonglass.

“We saw an omen.” Mikel says, his voice lower than before. The rest of his people are outside the tent, watching the children play and making idle conversation with the wildlings. Tormund goes still beside Jon and sits up at this. “A shooting star.”

Jon’s expression remains blank, but his friend sucks in a breath. “What does that mean?” He asks.

“It means death, Snow.” Tormund replies, his tone harsher than usual. When Jon doesn’t say anything back, expecting a full explanation from the two men surrounding him, his companion continues. “Beyond the Wall, seeing something like that fall from the sky usually means either plague or famine. You take a pick." When he runs his tongue across his bottom lip, Jon feels something unpleasant eat away at his stomach. "However, sometimes – it could also mean... war.”

Jon feels himself stiffen at that. _War._ The word rings bitterly, ominously, inside his mind. _Another war_. There is a thickness in his throat that internally chokes him for half a second, his mind reeling back from the dark times he’d spent holding a sword and drawing blood. Once upon a time, he’d told Sansa he was done fighting. Yet, he led an army to reclaim the North anyway. After Arya had killed the Night King and Bran had been crowned King of the Six Kingdoms, he uttered that promise again and had successfully kept it for almost two decades.

The thought of breaking that vow almost sends him into a panic if not for the way Tormund laid a hand on his shoulder, seeming to read his mind. He looks up and stares at the way his dear, most unlikely, friend’s paling red hair brushes against his aged cheek and thinks, _we’re too old for this_.

_This is meant to be an era of peace_. He wants to insist.

"And I am to believe this is a sign of danger?" Jon asks before he could stop himself.

"It is true." Mikel says, and there is no trace of doubt on his face.

Tormund looks at Jon with a hint of disappointment. "You and I both know this could very much mean something, Jon."

Jon presses his lips into a thin line and closes his eyes. "But the scouts have not reported anything amiss outside the encampment. How am I to believe anything is about to go wrong?"

"You may not believe it now, ser." Mikel says.

"I'm not a knight. Call me - "

"Jon." Tormund cuts him off. When had he ever been the voice of reason between the two of them?

"But - I implore you to prepare. The trees may bear fruit and the land vegetables now, only to die all at once tomorrow. It will be a harsh summer for you and your people if that happens." Mikel advices.

Jon's smile is rueful. He glances outside and sees that the sky is already dark. Shadows rise from the camp fire and dance through the night. "Here I thought only winter could ever have such an awful reputation."

Mikel inclines his head. "Times are a-changing."

Tormund snorts. "When do they not?"

All three men snap to attention when a sound of someone crying out rings across the area. Jon is the first to run out, drawing his sword in a swift motion as his eyes scan for what he thinks to be an enemy. But instead of invaders or bandits attacking the camp, he sees the source of the voice - a woman who is looking up with her hands pressed to her mouth.

Jon follows her sight and feels his eyes widen.

Ghost and Balerya start howling.

Above them is a portrait of a comet's tail, purple with a hint of blinding light shining across the black night canvas, as its head pulls it through with a moderate speed. It bursts once, twice, and its violet hue is so lovely Jon wonders if this beautiful, prophetic being is truly a cause for such fear and worry. But then it disappears over the horizon just as quickly as it comes, and everyone explodes into chaos. Mothers and fathers clutch their children. Lovers embrace. Jon and Tormund lock eyes, the latter seemingly composed in all of this.

Jon watches the direwolves as their heads remain raised towards the blank, blank sky. Their howls continue as the sounds mingle with the voices around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and/or kudos are appreciated!


End file.
